64 Fashia's Fountain

Three sturdy Soeland patrol ships anchored just off the rocky Uraban coastline, far below the Edict Line. The lookouts remained on high alert to make sure no Urecari vessels saw them. Up against the cliffs, a small pier and marker obelisks indicated a stony path that wound into the narrow gorge. Destrar Tavishel was sure that this was the right place.

Flushed with excitement, Jenirod watched the determined Soelanders take up their weapons and prepare to go ashore. “Are you sure we need all these men, Destrar? Fashia's Fountain isn't a military outpost, just one of their unholy shrines.”

Tavishel gave him a cool look. “Do you fault my thoroughness?”

Jenirod shook his head. “No, we both have too much riding on this operation. Let us do it in the name of Queen Anjine.”

The Soeland destrar barked gruff orders, but the men already knew what they were doing. Creaking ropes lowered the small boats over the side, and the men rowed to the lonely pier, disembarked, then sent the boats back for additional shore parties. Jenirod sat aboard the second boat, anxious to fight. Tavishel arrived with the very last group. The Soelanders, though eager, were professional warriors.

Years ago, after the heinous slaughter of Prester-Marshall Baine's pilgrims at Ishalem, Tavishel's ships had intercepted a Uraban diplomat en route to Calay. After killing the man and his crew, Tavishel had desecrated the proposed peace treaty and sent the corpse-filled ship into the Tenér docks. The Soeland destrar was not a braggart, but it had been too long since he'd done something significant.

Now Jenirod was only too glad to help him—and earn the respect and adoration of his bride-to-be. He grinned to think of how impressed the queen would be. Previously, Jenirod had fought in mock battles and tournaments, but he suspected this experience would feel different from a colorful equestrian cavalcade. He was anxious to see the color of Urecari blood; he had heard so many stories that questioned whether they were even human….

As the last boat tied up to the dock, Tavishel stepped off. He was a humorless man, but they had a grim task ahead, and it was good for grim men to do it. The bearded destrar strode to Jenirod. “Are you ready?”

Jenirod's eyes gleamed over his enthusiastic smile. “I've been waiting for this all my life.”

Unimpressed, Tavishel trudged up the steep path, holding his sword in a firm grip. The hardy Soelanders followed at a swift pace, and Jenirod found it difficult to keep up; he was a horseman, not a footsoldier. His own sword was heavy, but it would feel lighter once coated with Urecari blood.

During the mile-long climb into the gorge, the Soelanders spread out and paced themselves to save strength for the real attack. Along the way, they came upon two women who were astonished to see an armed Aidenist party heading toward the shrine. Tavishel did not bother to speak to them, since nobody understood the gibberish of Urecari language anyway. The pilgrims were too shocked even to raise an alarm before the first soldiers ran them through and pushed the bodies down the slope.

Jenirod stared, but the Soelanders pressed on with great vigor, now that first blood had been spilled. He furrowed his brow as he kept up with Tavishel. “Those were unarmed women. That wasn't sporting.”

Tavishel turned toward him in angry amazement. “This isn't sport—this is retribution in the name of Aiden! If you have no stomach for it, go back to the dock and wait while we strike. There'll be plenty more women killed before the day is out.”

Jenirod wavered, realizing that he had not thought through everything they would be doing. He had imagined great battlefield glories, a victory over the heinous enemy, not just a slaughter of helpless pilgrims and priestesses. And yet they were the enemy.

Jenirod squared his shoulders and pushed ahead. When the path leveled off near the hanging lake and its waterfall, the men raced forward, raising their swords and howling bloodcurdling cries. Fourteen pilgrims were at the sacred lake, eight in the water and the other six on the shore. More than twenty white-robed priestesses hurried out in sheer astonishment as the attack party burst upon them. The Urabans screamed and raised their hands, some pleading, some hurling curses. In the end, the result was the same.

Though he couldn't understand anything the people were saying, Jenirod was sure they invoked the protection of Urec, expecting lightning bolts to come down from the sky and incinerate the invaders. Apparently, Urec was not listening to the priestesses today.

Tavishel's fighters sloshed into the pool, wading up to their waists and swinging swords. The pilgrims tried to swim out of reach, but the lake was small and they were hindered by their sodden white robes. With grim ruthlessness, Destrar Tavishel sprinted along the rocky shore to catch two pilgrims seeking shelter behind the downpour of the falls. The spray ran red for a few moments before the blood was rinsed away.

His killing spirits high, Jenirod cut down a slow old woman—no doubt an evil priestess—then rushed onward in search of other victims. They were easy to find, since the people cowered and screamed. Momentum swept him along now, the adrenaline, the red haze that made him focus in the same way he concentrated on winning during a great tournament. He didn't view them as victims, or even humans. They were Urecari. They were the enemy. And he discovered that Urecari blood was red after all.

The slaughter lasted less than an hour. Tavishel and the Soelanders, streaked with blood and gore, surveyed the butchered bodies. One of their men strode to the lake's edge and urinated into the sacred water with exaggerated formality; the other men laughed, and many followed suit.

As one of the men bent to sew up a wound on Tavishel's arm, the destrar smiled with satisfaction. “Search everywhere. I doubt you'll find any more Curlies left alive, but there might be treasure. Take all of their gold or artifacts.”

“This is a shrine.” One of the Soelanders sounded superstitious. “Everything will be marked with the sign of the Fern.”

Tavishel's voice was heavy with scorn. “Does it look like Urec is protecting his people? We'll melt it down. Gold is gold.”

The men smashed open the doors of the priestesses' dwellings and gathered a pile of jewels, gold icons, and cuar coins, donations to the shrine. Finding stockpiles of food and sacramental wine, the men had a satisfying feast, throwing bones and refuse into the lake. They set fire to anything combustible, then headed down the trail to the ships before the sun began to set, each man carrying a portion of the spoils.

Tavishel's smile was genuine now. “Is this what you expected, Jenirod? Are you pleased with the outcome?”

“I accomplished exactly what I set out to.” Jenirod admired a ring he'd collected to prove his devotion to Anjine. This truly was a gift fit for a queen, a victory that would rock the Urecari to the core, and he had suggested it. If Anjine did not respect him after this, then there was just no pleasing the woman.