Free Redemption (Book 6) by Ben Cassidy Page B

she could not sleep, and the darkness seemed to stare right back at her, that the coldness was due to all the souls of the dead that still lingered in this place. For the Hall of the Stone Trees was also a place of blood and sorrow. It had been ever since before anyone could remember.
    The ancient Rajathans had built it long ago, back when Jothland had been the heart of their empire. Then the Hall had been a great temple, perhaps the great temple of their domains. Even now, after centuries of wind, rain, and decay, it was an awe-inspiring sight.
    In her more heretical moments, Bronwyn found herself wishing that she could see it as it had once been, before the first great Despair and the coming of the Seteru into Zanthora.
    Massive pillars, carved in the shape and style of trees, flanked the walls on either side, and stretched for more than a hundred feet into the air. The vaulted ceiling had partially collapsed in places, leaving piles of rubble and stone on the huge antechamber below. Moss, ivy, and vegetation of all sorts grew up through the cracks of the stone, giving the Hall a strangely arboreal look. Sunlight streamed in through the huge holes in the ceiling. Birds flitted around in the stone arches of the expansive rafters and buttresses above, twittering and chirping endlessly. Their cries echoed in the vast expanse of hall.
    Behind Bronwyn came the clang of metal on metal, and another screaming cheer from the crowd of onlookers. She kept walking.
    Statues had once lined either side of the hall. Over time they had been defaced and vandalized by worshippers of the Seteru, so that now none of their features remained.
    It was ironic to consider the depths to which this place, once considered so holy by the Rajathans, had fallen over the centuries. This had once been a huge hall filled with the smell of incense and burning sacrifice, echoing with the chants of priests and the murmured prayers of petitioners. Now it was filled with the stench of human filth and sweat, and echoed with the harsh cries of barbarians.
    Still, whenever Bronwyn chanced to glance up at the vastness of the ancient temple, she found it hard to restrain a shiver of awe at the majesty of the lost Rajathans.
    The Great Fang had made the Hall of the Stone Trees his temporary residence. All the Jombard tribes of Rothland, at least those who were wise enough to fear his power, had come at his summons. Even some of the Hagar from the Wastelands to the far north had come, eager for spoil and war.
    But still, the cracks in this temporary alliance were starting to show. It had been almost a month now with nothing but setbacks and defeats to show for the attacks against the Wall to the west. The Great Fang was biding his time, but the other barbarian chieftains were starting to grow impatient and restless.
    It would not be long before the barbarians in the camp were at each other’s throats.
    Bronwyn reached the start of the huge stone stairs. They led up to the ruined area that had once been the temple’s high altar.
    Two burly Jombards, each wearing a wolf skin over his head, crossed spears to block her path.
    “The Great Fang has not summoned you,” one said. His voice was low, like the growl of an animal.
    Bronwyn gave both men a diffident, almost unconcerned look. “Tell him,” she said with intentional slowness, “that my audience with him is a matter of urgency.”
    The two warriors exchanged looks.
    The first snarled at Bronwyn, but moved his spear. “Remain here,” he ordered. “I will seek the Fang’s will.”
    Bronwyn said nothing. The Jombards of the Great Fang’s tribe spoke almost as if he were some kind of a god.
    The barbarian disappeared up the stone steps.
    Bronwyn stood, waiting with a patience she did not feel. Behind her came more shouts and screams from the fight. She found herself idly wondering which man would win, and which would be food for the dogs before nightfall.
    The Jombard warrior reappeared. “The Great Fang will