This Poisoned Tide: The Last Water Witch Book One

Chapter 43

The cool metal of a heavy Druvari medallion dropped against Juda's burning skin.

The priest's visage swam before his wide-open eyes, like a fever-dream. A sick fascination and amusement lingered upon his face. He was enjoying Juda's pain, exhilarated by his agony. He drew close, knowing that Juda could do nothing to stop him. Laughter filled the gaps between Juda's screams.

Someone entered the crypt and the priest's head snapped to the right. Juda saw prominent veins on his neck. Intricate etchings inked over the back of his skull and up the torn ridge of his ear.

As The Grim and Juda marched behind the priest—whose face was now redder than Estella's after she'd rouged her cheeks—Juda kept his attention fixed to the back of the man's shaven skull, silently vowing to himself that once the King was dead, he'd come and find this priest. The decision whether to rip out his tongue or pop out his eyeballs would be a difficult one, but whichever he chose, Juda was sure he would enjoy the bastard's pain, as much as the Druvari had enjoyed his. Maybe more.

Focus, Juda, Aleina whispered. Enjoy your spoils later, for now you must concentrate on the task ahead. Certainty beckons.

The courtyard beyond the gates was almost as large as half the entire surface area of the slums, stretching out on either side of the palace, the obsidian cobbles smoothed by the constant tread of the Druvarian people throughout time.

Once, this place had housed the great Moontide Markets, when the moon itself was at its fullest and when it was said the gods were seated high on their celestial thrones, blessing the Kingdom with a fruitful harvest. Traders would gather to sell produce, crowds would teem in through the gates, many travelling over the Setalah from Dreynia, and even Carraterra, to take in the delights of the markets. There would be music, song, dance and, of course, more ale than any man should be able to sup and still stand upright, all in gratitude to the gods who had bestowed such sacred blessings upon Druvaria.

Now, when the crowds teemed in through the black gates, it was not to sing and dance and feast for gods who blessed them, but to kneel in front of a god who bestowed blessings only upon himself A god who gave them nothing but lies and suffering. A god who would see them cower.

Juda had oft wondered what it would be to make a god kneel and cower before him. To press his boot onto Ban-Keren's throat, in the same way the King used the boot of The Order to tread upon the necks of all those who opposed him.

This tide, the courtyard was like a desolate landscape and above it, overlooked the jagged black towers of the palace, like giant sea stacks jutting out of the King's vast keep. As they crossed the courtyard, Juda glanced upwards as much as he dared, sure to keep his neck stiff and straight, his chin held at the same level. Scarlet moss crept up the walls, thickened crimson tributaries crawling towards the turret peaks as if it sought to squeeze the entire palace in its grip.

The steps leading up the palace approach were lined with a wall of Druvari, all draped in their heavy wool cloaks, despite the glare of the late midtide sun. The Grim gave them barely a glance—or at least, appeared to pay little attention—but Juda was certain he saw what Juda did. Their cloaked forms were too bulky. Their stance too regimented. Juda would have wagered that strip away their priest cloaks, and underneath there was a warrior's garb and weapons.

Roth had been right in what he had told Elara.

The Druvari Sect were something else now, transformed into more than mere devout men of faith. This was an army, and however this had come to pass, whoever was in charge—this Hoth-Sàl maybe—The Grim knew of it and didn't like it any fucking more than Roth did.