Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 38711 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 129(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38711 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 129(@300wpm)
Finn shook his head.
“Chaos. The end of everything. Nav is the realm that protects us from that.” Roman ate another spoonful. “The name of the game is balance. Crops are planted in the spring, they grow, they are harvested, and then winter comes. Their roots and stems decay and nourish the earth. Chernobog is the one who makes that decay happen. As the remnants of the crops die, the soil rests and rejuvenates. Without winter, without the Goddess Morena, Chernobog’s wife and consort, there cannot be spring. One cannot just take and take. One must give back.”
The logs crackled in the fire. The two dogs had finished their food and sprawled in front of the fireplace, satisfied. Three of the mercenaries had taken off down the road, back the way they’d come. Now where were they headed?
“People don’t like death. It scares them, so they call Chernobog evil. Winter is hard, so they call Morena evil. Disease and sickness are cruel and unforgiving, so they call Troyan the Healer, a Nav god, evil because sometimes no matter how much you pray to him, he doesn’t answer. But we are crops, Finn. We must grow, thrive, flourish, and die, to make room for other living creatures. Such is life. So no, I won’t be going on a murder spree for the sake of killing. To Chernobog, every life out there has value. I will take if I must. But I won’t be the one to upset the balance first.”
The kid had forgotten about his food again. Something was bothering Finn. Roman could almost feel the wheels turning in his head.
All in good time. Patience was something he had in abundance.
A knot of magic ignited on the edge of the property, and it had a particular flavor. Not Abrahamic, not pagan… But something else. Definitely a divine derivative. And a light divine, too.
The mercenaries were back, and they had brought someone else with them.
The magic flared.
Couldn’t even let him finish a bowl of stew in peace. Roman rose and took his staff from where it rested against the wall. Klyuv opened its beak and shrieked.
“Brace yourself,” Roman told Finn. “I think we’re about to get attacked with some goodness and light.”
The knot of magic spun, churning, just on the edge of Roman’s senses. The source of it was hidden behind the trees. The mercenaries were keeping it well outside of his reach. If he shut his eyes and let his mind take over, the knot of magic blazed, bright white, like an angry star.
Whoever that was, they were idling way too high. Whipping that much magic through one’s body was bad for you. It cut down on your lifespan.
Roman tapped the floor with his staff. “Vasya. I need you.”
Deep within the cold ground, a presence stirred, drowsy and unwilling.
“I know, I know.”
He should’ve been asleep, digesting the rabid bear he’d eaten two days ago, but sometimes things couldn’t be helped.
Vasya shuddered and started forward, toward the dirt plugging up the entrance to his lair’s underground tunnel.
The leader of the mercenaries walked into the open. Behind him, a pair of armed men walked a blindfolded man between them. He was of average height, with a mane of long, wavy dark hair pulled back from his face into a half ponytail.
“Who is that?” Finn asked.
“A priest of some sort.”
“Why is he blindfolded?”
“That’s a good question.”
The small group halted just outside the property line.
“So whose priest is he?” Finn asked.
“We won’t know until he invokes.”
“What’s that?”
“Invoking is when you beg your god to cover that really big check your fool mouth just wrote.”
“Can you invoke?”
“My god is having family issues right now. Not a good time.”
Finn squinted at the priest. “What happens if the god doesn’t answer?”
“You’re fucked.”
“Mr. Roman!” The mercenary leader called out.
And they had learned his name. Dabrowski must’ve let it slip. If they had done a background check, they would’ve called him by his last name, Tihomirov.
Roman looked at Finn. “Stay here. Don’t come out.”
The kid nodded.
Roman walked out onto the porch.
“I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot,” the merc said. “My name is Wayne Greene. I own Shadow Strike Solutions.”
So awesome. So impressive. I’ve got some shadows for you, buddy. Don’t you worry.
“These are my people. They are all good, solid guys. I run a clean operation. I like to do things above board.”
You don’t say.
“It wouldn’t sit right with me if I didn’t give you this last chance to avoid bloodshed. The optics of this are bothering me. My team is about to take down a lone man and his pets in a single house in the middle of the woods. There is no glory here. They won’t sing songs about this one in Valhalla.”
Ah. A neo-Viking. A lot of mercenaries skewed Norse. The idea of being rewarded and celebrated for their lives of violence appealed to them. Instead of seeing themselves as paid muscle-for-hire, they preferred to envision themselves as wolves and reavers in human skin, seeking glory in the name of a higher calling. When one of them died in battle, instead of dealing with the grim reality of replacing him with the next warm body and sending his family his last check, they would make speeches, drink, and growl about seeing their brother in the mead halls of Valhalla.