The Ranger of Marzanna (The Goddess War #1) - Jon Skovron Page 0,115

of the four corners. Bhuidseach Rowena was the closest, and Jorge watched as she lifted one pale arm. When the sleeve fell back, he saw a number of thin, even scars that lined her forearm almost like stripes. Then she held up a small, silver knife with a ruby in its pommel, and carefully, almost reverently, cut a new line on her arm.

Jorge glanced at Angelo, his face no doubt expressing his concern.

“Just watch,” whispered Angelo.

Jorge looked back at Rowena. She was now walking slowly down a line of caskets with her bleeding arm outstretched. She paused before each casket long enough to let a few drops of her blood fall within, then moved on to the next.

It did not take long for the dead to rise. As Rowena and the other necromancers worked down their respective lines, heads with long, stringy white hair began to emerge from the crates behind them. The skin of the sluagh gorta looked strangely shiny, perhaps from the preservatives, and it was a uniform slate gray. When they climbed laboriously out of their crates, he saw that they were dressed in simple brown tunics that offered little protection from weather or violence. But of course that was part of the appeal of the sluagh gorta. They didn’t need it.

Each one stood in front of their casket, their yellowed eyes staring off at nothing, their gray mouths stretched into a ceaseless grimace. They did not move or make a sound, but waited patiently.

When the necromancers had finished their blood distribution, they gathered in front of their newly awakened army of the dead. The oldest of the male necromancers bellowed something in the Uaine language.

“Bhuidseach Hueil is welcoming the newly awakened sluagh gorta,” said Angelo. “He says, ‘You have been given the supreme honor of ensuring victory in a war that will make the Uaine the most powerful and feared people in the world. Other nations will tremble at the mere mention of our name’…” Angelo gave Jorge a sidelong grin. “And etcetera.”

Angelo seemed not to take such hyperbolic language seriously, but as Jorge watched a thousand undead warriors stand in orderly rows in an unnatural and eerie silence, he thought perhaps it wasn’t so far-fetched.

“Now he’s telling them to present arms,” translated Angelo.

As one, the sluagh gorta turned back to their caskets, reached down, and took up a weapon. Some had swords, others axes, maces, or spears. Each one brandished their weapon with an ease that suggested that if they remembered nothing else, they still knew how to fight. When they had retrieved their weapons, they turned back to face the necromancers and were still once again.

Bhuidseach Hueil shouted something in an even louder and more vehement voice.

“‘Proclaim your dedication to Bàs, the Uaine, and victory,’” translated Angelo.

With perfect unity, the army of sluagh gorta raised their weapons and let out a shriek of noise that was more like a chorus of tortured beasts than a war cry.

Jorge could only shudder at the sight.

46

Galina stood in the cold, muddy training yard of the imperial garrison and watched as Sebastian’s men performed drills, parading their horses back and forth in perfect tight formation at the order of Rykov, Sebastian’s ominously hulking aide-de-camp. Her betrothed stood next to Rykov, observing the drills with silent gravity.

Galina watched from a little ways off, so as not to get in their way or disturb their fragile manly decorum. She shifted her weight slightly as the wet slush seeped into her soft leather shoes. If she was to make a regular habit of visiting the garrison, she would need more practical footwear. And she certainly intended to make a regular habit if it. Only by understanding the daily pressures her betrothed faced within the military could she hope to counter them.

When she looked at Sebastian now, she hardly recognized him. He was still just as handsome, although he looked as though he had not been eating or sleeping as much as he should. What she found even more striking, however, was the cold, hard expression on his face. There was no sign of the tender heart that had won her over all those months ago.

She supposed it was to be expected. Men behaved differently in the company of other men. As the great Lady Olga Bunich Fignolov once wrote, “He preens, or postures, or remains stoically reserved, whichever is dictated by the expectations of his fellow men. But never does he show that gentle aspect which a mother, or sister, or