Deaths reach, p.1
Death's Reach, page 1
part #2 of Hungry Gods Series
DEATH’S REACH (HUNGRY GODS BOOK 2)
A Novel by G.S. WRIGHT
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
1st Edition
v1.0
Copyright © 2014 G.S. Wright
Published by G.S. Wright
All rights reserved.
Cover Design by Jennifer Pack at Black Cat Studios Design and Photography. https://www.facebook.com/blackcatstudios
Special thanks to Aimee Wright, Mike and Katy Pospichal for taking the time to proofread this work.
Kindle Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
The zombie apocalypse continues as the survivors search for a place of refuge. Things have gone from bad to worse, with even the gods succumbing to the curse.
Taegar never saw himself as a hero, and certainly not a leader. His allies are a mixed bunch, composed of a little girl and her zombie brother, a blind and crippled elf, a rogue, and a young woman that can’t return his affections. Though their differences threaten to tear the group apart, only by staying together can they survive.
Their goal is to reach Levia, the city of wizards, hoping that such a place would have withstood the undead horde. Between them and their destination is a dying world full of new horrors and nightmares as the curse expands beyond humans. And what awaits them in Levia? Has it truly survived the madness of the zombie apocalypse?
Meanwhile, the goddess, Death, embarks on her own journey to reach the underworld and fulfill her destiny. Her companion, a man thought lost to primordial spirits, carries within him a curse all his own.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
Author’s Note
ALSO BY G.S. WRIGHT
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER 1
Tiama did not consider herself special. Her dreams had always been simple. She’d married Landin, a wonderful and kind man with a good head on his shoulders, capable of providing for her and their child. He’d bought her beautiful dresses, kept food on the table, and treated Amada, their baby daughter, like a princess.
Two weeks ago when the madness erupted throughout Briar’s End, he’d gotten her to the temple and told her that even the savages would respect the sanctuary of the gods. He’d kissed her deeply, hard enough to steal her breath, and promised to return. Then he’d ran off to help defend the town.
The temple filled up fast, and they’d locked the heavy gold doors before those from the poorer sections of the town could reach them. Such chaos led people to reach above their station. There weren’t even servants here, only clergy that saw to their needs and filled the role nicely.
Tiama would not have minded if they’d let others in. She wondered how Landin could return with the doors barred. The invaders would have to give up eventually, wouldn’t they? The house of the gods still held them at bay.
Still they continually pounded on the temple doors, never resting, like a chaotic drum beating out of rhythm for days and nights unending.
It drove some of the people mad.
How could they continue like that? Even the most resilient of men had to rest eventually. When would they go away?
She knew that the savages had conquered Briar’s End. She had no doubt what would happen to her and her child if they opened the doors. She did not want to think of it. Only the gods offered respite. They only had to hold out until the king’s army returned to reclaim the city.
She tried to get as far away from the temple foyer as she could, and into the sanctuary of the gods. Candlelight reflected off of the golden idols of the many gods throughout the chamber and gave her a sense of peace, as though they were looking out for her. She’d chosen a bench beneath the statue of Mara, the goddess of children and dreams.
Tiama stroked Amada’s forehead, and brushed her exposed breast against the baby’s lips. Amada stirred, but didn’t open her eyes. She didn’t latch on to the nipple, either. She’d been difficult to calm all week, fussing more and more as Tiama had less to eat. Last night her wails dropped to a whimper, and she hadn’t stirred again.
“Wake up,” she said softly, “Please don’t leave me.”
Amada only responded by scrunching up her petite nose. She drew each breath laboriously, and Tiama could do nothing but listen, waiting for her to draw each one and praying that it wouldn’t be her last.
She sniffed back tears, feeling the emptiness grow within her. She rubbed Amada’s tiny, soft hands as though she could keep the life within her. “You have to stay awake for Daddy. He’ll be back soon.”
Though she clung to the hope, it still tasted like a lie. Landin would’ve known what to do. He had a mind for family. He’d grown up with six younger brothers, and had practically raised them when his father died. She remembered his delight when he’d seen his daughter for the first time. She’d never seen him smile like that for anyone else, and it was the first and only time she’d ever seen him cry. Where are you?
Fifteen families, some complete, some broken, had received sanctuary within the temple. Altogether they numbered over fifty. The storage room had been full when she’d arrived, but the number of mouths quickly depleted it. They hadn’t planned to be under siege for so long. They hadn’t bothered to ration what they had.
She looked up as the priest emerged from his chambers, and others gathered around him. Bishop Dromun wore the white robes of his office, with a rope of gold tied about his waist. Dark circles hung beneath his eyes, and his flesh sagged as though it no longer fit him. Once a portly man, two weeks of starvation and fear had rapidly changed him into a man clinging desperately to his faith.
He spent more and more time in isolation, forehead to the stone floor, praying and listening. She’d come to recognize the bowed shoulders of a man growing used to disappointment.
Most of the others did not see it. As the priest, the gods spoke through him. If the gods didn’t speak they blamed him, and they were desperate for a miracle. They pressed in on him from all sides, their voices drowned one another out, though they all shared the same question. “Have the gods answered?”
He raised his hands for quiet. For a moment, she saw again the priest that she’d known her entire life. He’d been the one to wed her and Landin. Beneath the exterior of an old man, there still existed a devout and zealous leader. No matter his own turmoil, he hid it for the strength of his congregation.
“We must keep the faith,” he said, “The gods will hear our cry and save us.”
“We’ve been praying since this whole thing started,” someone said. Though Tiama couldn’t see him among the crowd, she recognized Yolmir. He owned a winery south of town, being sober for two weeks must’ve been hard on him.
“The gods will hear us,” Dromun reiterated. He pushed through the crowd, their mutters rising in his wake. His gaze swept across the sanctuary and over her. He did not have the time to worry about the soul of one child. It didn’t matter, his miracles had dried up. He wore his faith like his vestments, hiding his own internal battle. The gods couldn’t hear him anymore.
“I say we open the doors,” Yolmir said, “And surrender to the barbarians. They’re taunting us. They know we can’t hold out in here forever.”
Many of the parishioners voiced their agreement. Tiama felt a stirring of hope. Maybe they could surrender. Surely they would show mercy for a mother and her child. Their constant pounding created fear. If they would open the doors, at least it would bring an end to the constant barrage.
The sound of laughter rose over the muttering, and as one the congregation fell silent and turned. Tiama hadn’t heard laughter in over a week. It sounded out of place, and sent chills down her spine. She held Amada firmly to her breast, and still the baby didn’t stir.
The priest halted in his steps. The sound echoed through the majestic building, coming from everywhere and nowhere. “Show yourself!” he commanded. Despite his airs, Tiama again saw the old m an, and for the first time, real fear.
“The crypt door is open!” This came from Jendra, a one-time friend of Tiama’s. As Amada had grown sicklier, her friends had drawn away. Everyone had their own pain, they did not want to carry that of another.
The heavy stone door, hidden behind the altar, hung open. The candles did not break the darkness, it gaped like a hungry void sucking the light from the room. The flames flickered, casting dancing shadows about the sanctuary.
Another peel of laughter filled the chamber, but it did not come from the crypt. It was all about them. Yellow and red eyes reflected the candles from dozens of places.
“Daemons!” cried Bishop Dromun, “Be gone! This is holy ground!”
A woman stepped into the light and out of the crypt. She wore men’s clothing, not the dress of a lady, but black dyed tunic and breeches. Long dark hair hung loose, clear down to her waist. Her pale skin made her ghastly in the dim luminance. Perhaps the woman would be lovely if she would look the part of a lady.
The priest lifted from his neck his holy talisman, a circle surrounding a sun, with rays like needles protruding outward in every direction. It was the symbol of the unity of the gods, a ray for each of the one hundred. He held it forth as a shield, and strode toward her as though expecting her to recoil.
She didn’t, and the creatures within the shadows chortled and cackled. The woman crossed her arms, waiting for the priest to do something. Anything.
Bishop Dromun reached her, holding the talisman inches from her face. His hand trembled. The woman raised an eyebrow.
“What manner of daemon are you?” he said.
She grabbed the talisman from the priest. She pulled on the chain, and the priest stumbled forward. She placed her free hand against his chest, steadying him. The blood drained from his face, turning him nearly as white as the woman.
“What is this supposed to do?” she asked.
The priest ignored her question and jerked it from her. The talisman fell to rest against his robes again as he backed away. “I told you not to return. We do not deal with fiends.”
Yolmir stepped up next to Dromun. “What is this? Where did you come from? Is there a way out?”
“Alas, no,” she said, “Not for all of you.”
The candles reflected off of the sweat of the man’s balding head. What little hair he had he sported across his jowls, with long sideburns nearly meeting at the tip of his round chin. Yolmir’s eyes lit with anticipation at her words. “Take me out of here, I will make it worth your while. I have resources. I know the king!”
The woman’s eyebrows knit together. “Did your priest not tell you of my offer?”
“No,” Yolmir said.
Bishop Dromun grabbed the man by the arm, but Yolmir jerked away. “Please,” said the priest, “Don’t sell your souls to this woman. She is hell spawn.”
“Here is my offer,” she said, “I will take your children, those that have not seen sixteen years. I will save them from the monsters on your doorstep. I will keep them safe until the world finds balance. It is their only hope. Any left here will die.”
Tiama shuddered. She could never let this woman take her baby. She wasn’t natural. Amada struggled for another breath in her arms.
“The gods will answer our prayers,” Dromun said.
The woman’s voice dropped low, but the room had grown so quiet everyone could hear as clearly as if she yelled. “I am the only thing keeping the gods from answering,” she said, “You have their attention.”
“See?” shouted the priest, “I told you! She is a daemon. Her very presence corrupts this place. None of us will traffic with you.”
The woman scanned the crowd. “None of you? You would have your own children perish for this man’s fears? Very well.” With that she turned back toward the crypts.
Tiama stroked Amada’s cheek. Her little girl had just turned one, spent her birthday uncelebrated within this temple. Landin had missed it. It would’ve meant the world to him to have been there. He’d sworn his daughter would walk by her birthday, but she’d not gotten the opportunity to learn. This woman would not take her baby.
Amada sighed, a soft whisper of breath empty of the fight. Tiama stroked her cheek. She was so beautiful, and despite these last hours of struggling, looked more at peace than she’d had in days.
“Mommy will protect you,” she whispered, “Everything will be okay.”
She watched, waiting for Amada to take her next breath.
“Amada? Baby?” The infant made no response. She shifted the baby to her shoulder. Her head rolled back, limp as a rag doll. “No, baby, please wake up. Wake up for mommy. Please!”
Eyes turned to stare at her, drawn by her raised voice. She didn’t care. She clutched the baby tightly as she stumbled to her feet. She chased after the woman disappearing into the crypt.
“Wait!” she screamed, “Please save my baby.”
The woman stopped. Tiama could hear the priest shouting something behind her, but she blocked it out. All that mattered was that this woman would do as she’d said.
Up close she saw just how pale the woman truly was, blue veins easily visible beneath her flesh. Her eyes were huge, filled with black pupils that obscured the iris. Her ears poked through her hair, ending in unnatural points. She looked down at Tiama’s baby, eyebrows drawn together.
“Your child is dead,” she said.
Her words made Tiama’s flesh tingle. Her vision turned gray and her knees threatened to buckle, but she held her ground. “No, you said you could save our children! You said!”
“You will not see your child again in this life.”
“Just… bring her back. Save her?”
Tiama held her child out, her most precious possession, though her arms wanted to resist. She’d held the child so close for so long, her absence left an immeasurable void as though she’d torn away a piece of her heart.
The woman gently took the baby. She placed her lips upon the child’s in a soft kiss. Amada opened her eyes and let out a happy coo followed by a giggle, music Tiama had not heard in so long. Suddenly her legs would no longer support her, and she collapsed at the woman’s feet.
She’d done it. Amada would be okay. She looked up to thank the woman, but the words died on her tongue. Within the shadows she saw the woman’s entourage. A malignancy of goblins filled the darkness. There were dozens of the small creatures, possibly hundreds. They were twisted, hideous things with wide malicious grins full of sharp teeth.
The woman leaned down and handed one of the goblins her baby. The baby laughed happily as the creature cradled her awkwardly and ran off, before Tiama could muster a response.
The temple shuddered.
“Time is up,” the goblin woman said, “Anyone else?”
First one woman stepped up, and then another. Tiama could not recognize them through her tears. She didn’t care. The goblins came forward, leading the older kids and carrying the babies.
The goblin woman turned to walk away. Tiama grabbed her leg. “Please, take me with you. Her name is Amada. She needs her mother. She needs… me.”
The woman pulled her leg away, gently, yet firmly. “She shall know of her mother.” She said nothing more, and descended down the crypt stairs.
Tiama watched until she could no longer see them.
Bishop Dromun slammed the door closed, and stared down at her. He trembled with ill-concealed anger. “What have you done?”
She didn’t answer. She somehow got to her feet and stumbled back to her corner, there beneath the watchful eyes of Mara. She said a quiet prayer to the goddess, praying for the safety of her girl.
“Who is that?” someone screamed. At the temple entrance stood a man, fully nude, with a face as fierce as a dire wolf. He stared at the group with hatred. And hunger.
How did he get in? The doors are still shut.
The man’s body was flawless, with powerful muscles and flesh tinged with a golden hue. He would have been beautiful if not for the rage that twisted his visage.
Bishop Dromun approached him, arms up in supplication. “The gods have heard us! We are saved!”
The man, the god, reached out and in one swift movement, tore the priest’s heart out of his chest. Dromun fell to his knees, uncomprehending, as the god devoured it.
