Free Blood Of Gods (Book 3) by David Dalglish, Robert J. Duperre

doubt it.”
    “Why not? Perhaps Master Brennan has sent reinforcements to assist us.”
    Rachida shook her head. “Matthew has no ships, Gertrude. All but ours were conscripted by Karak’s Army.” She pointed toward the three rapidly approaching vessels. “Besides, those boats are large , far larger than any built in Paradise. What approaches is either an envoy from the Conningtons or . . . ”
    “Or Karak?”
    She nodded.
    Gertrude frowned, the lines of age around the corners of her mouth deepening. “What do we do, then?” she asked.
    “ I must go speak with my husband. You, Gertrude, are to take Patrick for me and find his wet nurse. He seems to be hungry.”
    “Of course, my Lady.”
    Rachida handed the swaddled babe over. The older woman held the child with easy familiarity, pulling him close and gently rocking him as she strolled across the rocks. Though Gertrude was obviously frightened about the coming ships, her gait showed none of it. She walked confidently, smoothly, a natural mother as she made her way up the incline toward the collection of hovels carefully hidden by a wall of glimmering volcanic stone. Rachida couldn’t help but feel a tinge of resentment, for she had often found herself struggling with motherhood of late.
    She began walking in the opposite direction, heading for the cliffs that bordered the island’s eastern shore. Everything around her was drab; the land beneath and above were varying shades of black and brown, and even the ocean seemed more gray than blue. There were many times when Rachida wondered if the name “Isles of Gold” was given just to mock those who came to live there, as she had for the last three months.
    Then again, the islands weren’t named for what sat atop it.
    Peytr had come across the islands during one of his many ventures around Dezrel, and discovered great veins of gold hiding inside the caverns beneath the archipelago’s many cliffs and crags, waiting to be mined; hence the name he gave it. Yet despite its treasures, the Isles were a dank and dreary place. The only landmass that was hospitable was the large central isle that Peytr had dubbed “ Provincia .” The others were harsh and barren, the waters shallow and filled with lurking dangers to both man and ship. Each day Rachida found herself pining after Moira, the love of her life, whom she’d left behind in Port Lancaster. If not for her son, magically born from Patrick DuTaureau’s seed, she might have gone insane . . . or slit her own wrists.
    The cliffs blotted out the day’s light when she passed beneath their overhangs. The way was treacherous here, the stones underfoot slick, but Rachida was nothing if not agile. Corton Ender, the old sellsword who had taught her to dance with blades back in Haven, had said that she and Moira were the most physically gifted students he’d ever taught. Of course we were, she thought. Both she and her love were the direct offspring of Karak’s First Families, the purest blood in all of Dezrel. It would have been disappointing if they weren’t immensely capable.
    The darkness deepened as the outcroppings lowered. She moved along, at a slower pace, until a soft glow appeared to her right, marking the opening to Provincia’s mine. Rachida entered the tunnel, lined with flickering torches, their light dancing off uneven, damp walls. Each time her boots touched ground, the sound of her footfall echoed throughout the narrow passage, combining with the muted clink and clank of metal on rock from down below. The torches made the atmosphere muggy, and she began to sweat through her heavy woolen cloak. She disrobed as she walked, heading ever deeper beneath the cliff.
    The passage finally ended at a wide, artificially constructed cavern. The expanse had been turned into Peytr’s study of sorts, complete with a desk, inglenook, dresser, and even a mound of blankets that served as a large bedroll. Remnants of smoke stifled the air. A second tunnel leading to