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

depressing island chain home. They were all filthy, lean, and sore from the daunting task of creating a small township on this desolate black rock, where any food other than fish was hard to come by. Though some of the men among them had fought the forces of Karak when the god stormed into Haven to demolish the Temple of the Flesh, they now appeared sickly and feeble.
    We do not stand a chance.
    “Gertrude,” she whispered, and the healer appeared beside her, along with the girl Trish, who acted as little Patrick’s wet nurse. Rachida peered over, saw her child busily sucking on the frightened girl’s breast, and felt an ill-timed tinge of jealousy; Rachida’s milk had dried up only two weeks after giving birth to her precious son. It seemed a magical conception was not without drawbacks.
    “Yes, my Lady?” asked Gertrude, her voice shaky.
    “I’ve changed my mind. Bring the girl and Patrick back home. Close and bar the doors, and try not to make a sound.”
    “Yes, my Lady.”
    “I told you I wanted everyone here,” Peytr said from the other side of her as Gertrude and Trish scampered away. “All our people need to be on hand.”
    Rachida gave her husband a dour look. “I will take my precautions as I see fit, Peytr,” she snapped at him. “I do not know what game you’re playing here, but my son will be safe.”
    “ Our son, darling,” he said. “Patrick might not be of my loins, but he is my heir. I wish for him to be safe just as much as you do.”
    “Then why this farce? Why stand out here and allow us to be slaughtered?”
    “That’s not . . . ” he began, but then he snapped his mouth shut. His eyes went back to the approaching dinghies. No matter Rachida’s pestering, he refused to broach the subject further. Eventually , she stopped trying.
    “Nester, bring me the Twins,” she called out. A moment later a scruffy man hustled toward her, two scabbards clutched in his hands. Rachida snatched the shortswords by their hilts and yanked them free, the slender blades hissing. She held them out before her, admiring the handiwork, the polished gleam of the steel, the woven silver and bronze of the hilts. Just looking at them caused a knot of guilt to form in her stomach.
    The swords had been fired in Haven’s very first smithy, only they weren’t twins when they were forged, but quadruplets. Two had been for her, and two for Moira; blades Corton Ender had designed especially for them. Individually, they were half the weight of normal shortswords, which allowed Rachida and Moira to utilize their superior quickness while masking their lack of strength. There had been many a day when she and her love would spar with these very swords out in the soggy fields by the Temple of the Flesh, working up a sweat before they stripped down and bathed in the stream behind Moira’s quaint little cottage. And yet over the past twelve months, they had been together a scant two days. She missed Moira dearly, which brought about hateful feelings for her husband. If Bryce had been the one so adept at swordplay, would Peytr have willingly parted with him? She thought not.
    Speaking of Bryce, where in the underworld is he?
    A hand roughly grabbed her arm, and she flinched, almost driving the blade in her free hand into Peytr’s gut. Her husband stared at her, lips puffed out in impatience.
    “You don’t need those,” he whispered, gesturing to the Twins. “Put them away.”
    She jerked out of his grip. “No. Not unless you tell me what is going on here.”
    For a moment Peytr appeared as if he might try to disarm her himself, but he obviously thought better of the idea and yielded.
    “You’ll see,” he said. “But please, just promise me you won’t do anything rash.”
    Rachida scowled. Peytr turned his attention back to the sea.
    The first of the dinghies ran aground on Provincia’s rocky coast, followed by a second, then a third. Rachida gulped down her growing fear. Their township was well hidden,