Dark
Communion
The Godswar Chronicles: Book 1
CJ Perry
Edited by Lindsey Williams
CJPerry.net
artofthearcane.wordpress
Copyright © 2013 by CJ Perry
Dark Communion may have content that is sensitive for some readers.
Dark Communion by CJ Perry
ASIN - B01M05ZCHG
Contents
Chapter One: Ayla and Deetra
Chapter Two: Mother of Night
Chapter Three: Underfoot
Chapter Four: Gifts from Mother
Chapter Five: Hornstall Keep
Chapter Six: The Freemen
Chapter Seven: See You in the Abyss
Chapter Eight: The Arena
Chapter Nine: Return to Hillside
Chapter Ten: Revolting
Chapter Eleven: Trading Places
Chapter Twelve: Guardians of Light
Chapter Thirteen: The Rat and the Martyr
Chapter Fourteen: Sacrifices
Chapter Fifteen: Dark Night
Chapter Sixteen: With Children
Chapter Seventeen: Starving Faith
Chapter Eighteen: Dark Communion
Chapter Ninteen: New Life, New War
About The Author
For my daughter and #1 fan, Elizabeth.
“Many of this world do not know to whom they pray. It does not change who hears them.
―The Night Goddess
Foreword
When I decided on a title and started searching for cover artists for Dark Communion, I heard the same advice over and over again: A good title and cover make a promise to the reader. Dark Communion is what it professes to be - dark. One reviewer, who had awarded it five stars, titled the review, “I need to hold a puppy after this.”
I don't doubt it. If I could have, I would have given her one to hold. Dark Communion is not for the faint of heart. It is a walk in the shoes of Ayla, the future Empress and High Priestess of the Goddess of Darkness - the villain. But villains, antagonists, or whatever you want to call them have a story too. Most often we never hear it. It’s too dark.
Ayla’s story begins at her lowest point. She has no family, no god, and no hope of a future, but ashes help create the strongest steel. This is not the story of one girl’s pain and suffering, but of her glory.
What follows is for those who have Ayla’s indomitable spirit. Ayla survives chapter one. Will you?
Chapter one
Ayla and Deetra
Ayla dropped to her knees between the wagon ruts, uneven black locks clinging to her tanned cheeks; the stink of his fur still on her skin. She balled her fists and glared at him, nails biting into her calloused palms.
Goreskin stroked the long onyx braid looped over the sash of his grey kilt - a braid he cut from the back of her head as she fought and screamed. He ran a thick bovine tongue over his dull yellow teeth. The minotaur’s voice rumbled deep in his furry chest.
“I expect you at the manor by first light.”
Ayla would rather die. She pried a rock loose from the dirt. Spots floated in her vision as she primed to throw.
A hand grabbed her forearm from behind, and the rock tumbled from her grip. She wheeled around, teeth bared like an animal.
“Let me go!” she screamed.
She tugged at Deetra, but the taller, broader girl’s grip went unchallenged. Deetra had a tight, muscled body from long days in the vineyard. She shook her head in pity, sun-bleached hair swaying as she stared into Ayla’s eyes.
Ayla twisted back toward the minotaur, who simply turned and walked away. His long, horned shadow stretched over the grass as he rounded the corner and disappeared between the dense rows of slave cabins.
Ayla took a breath to yell, but Deetra jerked her arm.
“That’s enough, Ayla.”
The sudden motion made Ayla’s vision dim. Her knees buckled and Deetra caught her in an embrace. Ayla held on, waiting for the ground to stop spinning. Coarse brown fur - his fur - covered her soiled and tattered dress.
She wiped at the dried saliva on her throat and cheek. Her mouth watered in preparation to evacuate her stomach. She leaned away and gagged until her eyes bulged, but nothing came. Deetra smoothed Ayla’s dagger-cropped hair from her face as her joints locked and she heaved again. Still nothing. She had managed not to eat anything all day.
“Come inside,” Deetra said, and wiped Ayla’s mouth with the hem of her dress.
Ayla nodded, face pressed between Deetra’s small breasts, and let her friend help her back into the sweltering, single room cabin. Deetra walked her over the bare dirt floor to the pile of blankets. The only other items in the cabin were a spade, which she used for digging latrines, and a bowl of water with a rag draped over the side. Deetra had lived there since the beginning of spring. Another month, and she would face execution for a barren womb.
Ayla laid down and stared at the ceiling. Deetra had begged her not to fight. She’d tried, but the moment he touched her she couldn't just let it happen. She had kicked, punched and spit at him. Ripped out fistfuls of fur and bit his ugly bull-face – but nothing deterred him.
Ayla had expected him to kill her - wanted him to - but he hadn’t. He left Ayla with every part of her in agony, ears still ringing from her own screams bouncing off the cabin walls. Her neck and throat throbbed in the shape of his hand. Her back burned from the whip and her privates ached like he’d left a hot knife inside her. Sweat rolled down her brow and inside her legs from pain and the suffocating heat inside the cabin.
Deetra went to fetch the bowl of water when she realized something was missing. When a minotaur chose a girl from the slave quarter, he gifted her with a small, iced cake.
“Where’s your cake?” she asked.
“It’s in the road,” Ayla replied.
Deetra nodded and returned to the pile of blankets with the rag and bowl of tepid water. She sat down next to Ayla, legs folded beneath her, and wiped Ayla’s forehead and cheeks.
“I didn't eat mine either,” Deetra finally said, eyes staring into nothing.
Ayla swallowed past the lump in her throat. The vision of the day her mother died played in her memory. She pressed on her lower belly and shook her head, but couldn't contain the tears no matter how she tried.
Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I don't wanna die like her.”
Deetra mopped the sweat off her own brow and pushed her hair behind her ear. The layered brown and yellow reminded Ayla of a marigold. The chin-length locks fell forward again and hung in her face as she tenderly cleaned Ayla’s bruised throat. The sun shone on Deetra’s back from the doorway, casting a lithe shadow across the dirt floor. The shadow wrung the rag between its fists and water splashed over Ayla’s neck.
She wanted soap. Ayla had stayed with the Smith’s, a Tradesman family, for the past year. She cared little for the family, and the feeling seemed to be mutual, but Mrs. Smith traded for soap from the House-slaves. Ayla had never been so clean, nor would she be again.
Deetra’s voice shook when she replied. “Your mother had a girl. You will too.”
“Great. More breeding stock.”
Deetra fell silent and washed Ayla’s feet, working her way up. When she made it to Ayla’s knees she raised the dress, heavy with perspiration. Ayla parted her legs with a wince and turned her head to the side. Deetra gasped.
Ayla craned her neck. “What?”
Deetra’s face was troubled, though she tried to hide it under her usual stern expression.
“You’re bleeding.”
Ayla dropped her head back to the blanket. “I don’t care.”
“When are your menses due again?”
Ayla thought about it.
They had ended just over a week ago. She closed her knees.
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. We have to -”
“Please, don’t say it.”
Ayla didn’t want to hear Deetra say she needed a healer. The idea of Old Freddie examining her private bits after all she’d just been through made her sick. Given the option, she’d prefer bleeding to death.
Deetra lowered the hem of Ayla's dress. “But-”
“Can you just lay with me?”
“This is serious. I need to -”
“I'm cold. Please?”
Deetra put down the rag and stood up, blocking out the orange-red sunset in the doorway.
“I'm going to get Old Freddie.”
Ayla’s breath hitched. “I don’t want him touching me.”
Deetra dropped back to her knees next to Ayla’s head, her expression twisted with worry. “Ayla, for once, just listen to me. This is serious. You could - I mean -”
“Just stay, please?”
Deetra placed a warm hand on Ayla’s forehead. “You look grey. Your skin is ice -” She checked behind her. “I have to get help.”
“Please?”
Deetra looked out the open door, then back down.
Ayla squeezed her arm. “If you’re my friend, you won't go.”
“I’m going because I'm your friend.”
Ayla let go and winced as she rolled over. “No, because you feel guilty,” she grated out in a whisper.
The tension of Deetra’s silence told her more than any admission. If the minotaur’s seed had taken to Deetra’s womb, Ayla may never have ended up in the cabin - at least not this year. She hated herself, but couldn't stop the words as they tumbled from her lips.
“I’m only here because you’re barren. And in a month …” Ayla swallowed, and wiped her cheeks. “I’ll have to watch your execution, watch you die. Then I’ll be all alone.”
Deetra laid down in front of her and gathered Ayla close. “I won’t go then. I’ll just stay here if that’s really what you want.”
Ayla buried her face in her friend’s chest, guilt weighing on her heart.
“I'm sorry,” she said and looped an arm over Deetra.
Deetra kissed her on the forehead. “You don't need to say sorry. I should be sorry. I didn't think of it like that.”
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the pain subsided to a dull ache and Ayla could no longer keep her eyes open. Deetra got up, and Ayla reached for her.
“Don’t go.”
“I'm just closing the door.”
Deetra shut out the fading evening sky and slid a brick over with her foot to hold the door closed.
“Old Freddie doesn't have to touch you,” Deetra said in the dark. “I could have him tell me.” She walked back over to the blankets and laid back down behind her. “When you’re better, we’ll run. Head south to the Freelands.”
“No,” Ayla said.
Deetra pulled her closer and whispered. “Why not?”
“Because I’ll still have to face Goreskin in the morning. I’d rather die tonight.”
Deetra propped herself up on her elbow. “Why would you die if there’s a chance we can survive?”
Deetra was stronger than any woman Ayla had ever known. The day they met, Ayla witnessed Deetra taking twelve lashes from the whip for attempting to escape. She hadn’t shed a single tear. Her will was unbreakable. Ayla had snuck her water in the pillory, marveling at the tapestry of pain burned into her back.
Goreskin took the whip to Ayla only once - today - and she had screamed bloody murder. Her friend possessed a strength Ayla could not fathom, so Deetra could never understand what it meant to feel weak, defeated.
“I'm not like you. I can’t do it. Besides, you didn’t make it alone. With me, we would be caught in a day.”
“So you’re just giving up?”
Ayla had dreamt of leaving ever since she heard of Deetra’s attempt, but she knew better. Reaching the southern lands took weeks on foot. Few ever dared the journey, and as far as she knew, no one had ever made it.
A group from another plantation had tried once, but they had turned around and come back after a few miles. The road veered south before it quickly disappeared into the Orc Hills. Less than half of the original group made it back, only to be whipped and hobbled for their efforts.
“If I die, I’ll see my Mother again.”
“She wouldn’t want you to give up.”
“You don't know that.”
“Yes, I -”
Ayla covered her ears. She couldn't hear any more. What she wanted now was sleep. The smell of dirt, sweat, and the green scent of the grapevines on Deetra’s dress banished the odor of animal musk. Ayla picked up Deetra’s hand from her waist and laced their fingers together. The thread of consciousness thinned with each moment that passed. She stared as the last bit of light faded from under the door.
She whispered the same secret wish she made each night, one that could never come true.
“Mom, please come back for me…”
She fell into a deep and dreamless sleep, until the door slammed open, jarring her awake. She waited for Deetra to get up but she seemed not to have heard it. The pale light of the moon poured into the small cabin. The stabbing pain below her belly button returned as she sat up. It took her breath away. She leaned forward, cradling her stomach, and forced herself to breathe. Beads of sweat dotted her brow, and the gravity in the cabin tilted this way and that. Her rear end rested on the wet, tacky blanket. She almost laid back down, but with the blood, she could not leave the door open while they slept.
The blanket came with her as she rose to a three-limbed crawl, one hand pressed to her belly. Half-dried blood had adhered the blanket and dress to her backside in one sticky lump. She peeled it away like a dirty bandage and made her way over to the door.
The waning gibbous moon illuminated the withering barley, hanging limply in the humid air. The wind had not rustled the fields in days. Ayla stuck her head out the door. She checked to the right, back toward the plantation, then left down the steep hill.
Nothing. A knot of fear tightened in her chest.
“Ayla.”
The crickets went silent. It was her mother’s voice, but distant and hollow. Ayla’s breath caught in her throat. She checked both directions again, half expecting to see her mother standing in the street. She knew it was impossible. Her mother survived the breeding cabin with Steelhorn, but Goreskin brought Ayla’s mother to the breeding cabin again thirteen years later. She did not survive the second time.
Ayla swallowed past the lump in her throat and slid the brick back in place to hold the door closed. She crawled back toward the pile of blankets in the dark.
The voice called to her again.
“Ayla.”
Eyes wide, she searched for her friend among the blankets. She found an arm and shook it. The door rattled and Ayla stifled another cry. She grabbed two handfuls of Deetra’s dress and heaved her head and shoulders off the floor.
“Deetra!”
Deetra’s head lolled back. Ayla shrieked and dropped her to the blankets with a thump. The door slammed open again and Ayla jumped. Pain lanced through her midsection and her heart raced in her throat.
“Ayla, come to me.”
Ayla dared another look out the door. A woman stood out in the road with her back to the moon. Her shadow stretched to the front step of the cabin. Ayla crawled over to the exit, trembling. She gripped the door jamb to steady herself, squinting through the blur of pain.
“Mom?”