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70
ONE MONTH LATER
I wasn’t expecting that the war would beat us to Yshrem.
We sit atop our mounts on the edge of a cliff and stare down at the plain below us. It stretches out for miles, and I almost expect to see more of the tiny villages along the roads that we’ve seen up until now. Instead, there’s a massive, white stone keep with a huge crenellated retaining wall. It butts up against a wide river, and on the other side of the river is an army.
In between them is a war zone.
Trenches are dug all along the river’s edge. A bridge that looks as if it used to cross to the other side is demolished in the middle. Spikes have been pushed into the ground to act as barriers and all over I see churned earth, scorched piles of ash that still smoke in the late morning sunlight, and in the distance, a field full of tents. Men crawl behind the barricades on the other side of the river, and even from here, I can see armor and spears. Flags flutter in the breeze, and as I watch, yet another rises behind a spiky barricade as if to taunt the cool-looking keep on the other side.
“What is this?” I ask, a little shocked. Part of me thought we’d show up to Yshrem—the capital city of the kingdom Yshrem which bears the same name—and maybe regroup a little before building an army. Clearly we’ve been beaten to the punch.
“It’s a siege,” Aron says, his gaze on the tableau below, eyes darting as he takes in the sight.
“But who’s sieging Yshrem? They’re the castle, right?” I raise my hand to my eyes, shielding the sunlight as I gaze at the massive fortress. On the far side of the wall, roads and fields lie spread and ordered in neat rows…but they’re empty and I don’t see crops growing. The last village we passed was completely empty and we didn’t know why.
Now I guess we know—they’ve all hidden inside the keep.
“Adassia,” Markos says, and Aron nods.
Over the last month, I’ve been given a crash course on Yshrem and Adassia history. They’re neighboring kingdoms, both conquered by the Cyclopae—who are barbarian warriors—about twenty years ago. Yshrem is fully under Cyclopae control, as their queen married the cyclops king, but it seems Adassia is not as big a fan. They’ve rioted in the past and fought against cyclops control before.
“Right. I guess that makes sense that they wouldn’t be happy.” I scan the army, at the bright red ba
“I see that.” His voice is flat. “That explains much.”
“What does it explain? Spell it out for us slow people.” Were they waiting for him? Did they know he was coming?
Have the Spidae betrayed us already? Is this all one big game?
“My last Aspect will be there, with Adassia.” He gestures at the sea of tents. “Why else would they war against a much stronger kingdom? They must have something—or someone—on their side to tip the scales in their favor.”
Hedonism Aron is there? I look at the sea of tents for signs that it’s him, but all I see is Aron’s symbol on flags, Aron’s symbol painted onto hammered breastplates. He can’t be wrong, though. The air feels charged, the troops a little too happy as they laugh behind their barricades. They’re laying siege to a hella big castle, but they act like they’re going to win. Even from here, I can tell there’s no tension in them. It’s like they’ve got this in the bag.
They would think that if they have the god of battle on their side.
You will meet your destiny in Yshrem.
Well fuck. They weren’t exactly wrong about that. Our “destiny” has already amassed an army when my Aron refused one. I bite back my sigh. Sometimes I wish Aron was a leeeetle less Aspect of Arrogance and more the Aspect of Common Sense, but I guess that wouldn’t make him who he is. Even so, staring down at the massive Adassian army that Hedonism Aron has manifested makes me think I’d feel better if we went back and got the Novoran army my Aron had been promised. “What do we do?” I ask, looking over at Aron as he gazes down the cliffs at the mess below. “What’s our new plan?”
Kerren, Markos and Solat are silent. I know we’re all waiting for Aron to decide. We can’t take on an army on our own. There’s no freaking way, and Hedonism Aron isn’t going to shove his anchor out in front of us so we can take potshots at it just for funsies.
My skin prickles, and I feel more vulnerable now than ever. I hitch my hood a little higher over my head, as if that will somehow hide me from my inevitable fate.
“We go to Yshrem as pla
I’m not so sure about that. I can’t shake the feeling that we’re all being manipulated.
Even so, I’ll follow Aron’s lead.
He dismounts from his woale, casting one last glance over the armies below before turning his attention to me. He comes to my side, offering his hand, and I take it and slide down off my mount, only to be pulled into his arms. Aron cups my face and pulls me to him in a fierce kiss, and I can practically feel the anticipation rolling off of him in waves.
He’s excited that we’re here. He’s excited there’s a war.
Of course he is. He’s the god of battle. I have to keep reminding myself of that. This is his bread and butter. This is what he loves. I’d probably feel the same about a new Twilight book or an entire box of Cadbury Creme Eggs magically showing up. But it scares me.
That army down there means we’re nearing the end.
After a month of crossing the mountains and then the endless forest to get to Yshrem, you’d think I’d be prepared for this. I’m not, though. While I don’t miss the cold of the mountains or trying to lead my woale through the forest for hours on end, I still enjoyed every day I spent with Aron and the others. It was “our” time, strangely enough. Sure, the travel was no fun, but the company was great. And every night, I got to curl up in Aron’s arms and make love to him. Sometimes it would be slow and sweet lovemaking, and sometimes it would be rough and exciting, but it was always good. Between rounds of sex, we’d talk about everything and nothing. I’ve told him all about my life before—how I was just one of dozens of cubes in an insurance company call center. How I was a no one. He doesn’t believe it, and I find that achingly sweet. In his eyes, I’m so important that he can’t imagine anyone overlooking me.
Aron tells me all about his stories, too. About how once upon a time, in the dawn of Aos’s civilizations, Aron was a mortal. A butcher, of all things. He tells me of how his village was invaded by a neighboring war-tribe when many of the men were conscripted into serving their king, and so the village was left undefended save for Aron, who had been recovering from a broken hand and was left behind. He told me how he defended the village from soldier after soldier, slaughtering them with his butcher’s cleaver and held off the enemy one handed long enough for the women and children in the village to flee to the hills.
He died in the fight, but the High Father was so taken with him that he raised him to the Aether and made him the god of battle. And storms, which are battles in the Aether. Every day, I learn more about Aron, and it makes me sad that this man who has come so far is being punished by the High Father like this. There has to be a better way to set the gods back on the right path than this, though what it is, I don’t know.
Not that I’m ungrateful. I’m just happy to be with Aron, to wake up in his arms and feel a little bit of contentment, however fleeting.
I feel all of that slipping away as Aron gazes back down at the field of battle below.
Aron wants to be down there. I can tell. He’s recharged in a way I’ve never seen before at the sight of the battle preparing to happen below. It’s early, but I can see troops gathering on the walls of the Yshrem keep and the Adassian soldiers are organizing, getting ready to move. It’s sure to be a bloodbath, given that they’ll be ru
For a moment, I want to take Aron by the hand and lead him away from this, from all of this. There’s no time limit on how long it takes for Aron to kill his other Aspect. We can find a little cabin somewhere, hide out from the world, and just live together, taking each day as it comes. Hell, we can wait for old age to decide things. Maybe Hedonism Aron’s anchor will go first—a likely scenario since he—or she—has got to be affected by his master’s pleasure-loving slant. Maybe we just let fate sort things out.
But…that’s not who my Aron is. He can’t sit by and wait for life to happen. He has to make things happen. He has to go to battle because it’s part of who he is. He’s war. It’s not just about wi
It’s about Aron being a war god. I have to accept it, because I have to accept Aron as he is or not at all.
I understand it, even if it fills me with terror.
So I take Aron’s hand and link his fingers in mine, and gaze out at the battlefields below. “He’ll be hiding his anchor,” I guess. “He’s going to want him close enough that he can keep an eye on him, but far enough from battle that he won’t get hurt. That means he’s probably somewhere in one of those tents.” I gesture at the sea of them in the distance.
“Or he’s put him in armor and is hiding him in plain sight. It might be worthwhile to see if any of the soldiers remains behind when the others surge ahead.” Markos moves to the other side of Aron, gazing down at the field.
I look over at my Aron. “What would you do?”
“I’m Arrogance,” he answers simply. “I won’t think the same as he does. Did he pick his anchor because it was a soldier that volunteered? Is it a wench he wanted to bed? Or did he simply have no other options like I did?”
“Oooh, burn on me,” I tease. “Just call me Last Resort Faith.”
Aron flashes a playful smile in my direction. “I’ve come around to liking how things turned out, though it probably would have been wiser to pick someone who knew how to carry a sword.”
And who he didn’t want to stick his dick into constantly. I mean, I get it. For a god of battle, a wimpy girl like me is a bad call. I have no muscle strength, I can barely sit on a woale for a few hours without bitching about it, and I’ve never used a bladed weapon. I’m a poor choice. A sitting duck.
No one will ever care for Aron as much as me, though. No one. I’m the best woman for the job.