Free Dark Gods Rising by Mark Eller, E A Draper Page A

leave the hellhole unchecked had sent more than a few of the order into Calto’s office demanding action, including Larson. Calto almost choked when he heard Larson declare the king an enemy to Yernden before suggesting the king’s removal.
    To say his suggestion had not gone over well was a bit of an understatement, but Larson had never been known for diplomacy. Still, he owned enough sense to know when things needed to be taken in hand and dealt with. The Hellhole Tavern and Carrid Brewer were two of those things. In his opinion, the king was a third.
    Carrid lifted two heavy chairs in his powerful arms and headed for the tavern. “You done asking me fool questions,” he asked as he walked away, “or you willin’ to accept that your time of harps and happiness is about done, an’ another beginning?” Pausing, Carrid looked around once more. “I think everyone’s finished dying. Could you have your knights haul the bodies away? They’re bad for business.” Chuckling, he pushed past the tavern’s broken doors.
    Larson ignored him. A hot, sticky wind blew against his face, sending prickles across his skin. This had the seeming of an ill wind, a wind of something evil blowing his way, but whether he suffered a case of nerves or something bad was about to happen, Larson didn’t know. A slow gnawing despair ate at his innards as Carrid disappeared inside the tavern. The despair had been creeping up on him for weeks now, but it suddenly hit him full-blown as the stench of shit, bile, and blood wafted over him, trying to force its way up his nose and into his lungs. He wanted to add his stomach acids to the pile of filth spread out over the mud and brick packed street. For a moment, the world swam. Larson steadied himself against the grime covered wall of an abandoned building.
    Straightening, he took a step deeper into the shadows, hoping the devil and his companions were returning to the scene of their depravity, but nothing stirred. Except for Carrid, none dared come near the horror in the street when Hell roamed free, and there wasn’t a damned thing Larson could do about it.
    A deep anger pushed upward from his chest, pushed and shoved at the weakness he felt, at the hopelessness trying to choke him. Making a tight fist, Larson expelled the vile feelings from his body. This was only a battle lost, not the war. He swore silently at himself for owning so many irrational feelings. Tonight Athos and Zorce had won, their creatures had gotten loose, but there would be other nights, nights when Larson’s knights destroyed the beasts before they could harm Anothosia’s people. His knights would not give in, would not give up, and would not forget their vows to serve and protect all those who worshipped and believed in the seven virtuous gods. There could be no backing down— ever . The moment Larson allowed that to happen the war would truly be lost. It was in the heads and the hearts of good people where the battles for truth and light were really won.
    “I don’t think they will be coming back this way,” a voice whispered in his ear.
    Startled, Larson jumped. With a swift pull of his sword, he took a step backward and swung at the shadow stepping in front him. Leaping away, it hissed, bringing its own sword up in a defensive posture.
    “Good gods and two, Larson, put that damn thing away!”
    The wild beating of Larson’s heart nearly drowned out the similian’s voice. Lowering his sword, he frowned at his fellow knight. “One of these days, Sulya, you’re going to end up with my sword sticking out your back.” And I’ll enjoy doing it , Larson thought acidly as the woman’s smile turned mocking.
    Hate would have been a mild word for what Larson felt for his forced partnership with this thing , a price he had agreed to for Calto’s return promise of trying to make nice with Simta. Any other man would have delighted at having such, a beautiful woman, as their partner, but there was something unnatural