Divine Intervention

Torbin never meant to offend the Gods, but when an errant meteor whisks him off to another world, he’s pretty sure they’re punishing him for something. If the tomb he wakes in is not his own, then the only thing left to do is prove his valor and win his way back into their graces. When Nesset prays for a miracle, the last thing she expects is the pale foreigner stumbling through her prison. Still, beggars can’t be choosers, and she’s running out of time. She’s scheduled for the sacrificial altar, and no doubt that’s where she’ll end up—unless she can convince the barbarian to help her. If they survive beyond that, maybe she can even convince him to stick around.

The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Divine Intervention Copyright © 2011 Frances Pauli Cover art by Martine Jardin All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher. Published by eXtasy Books Look for us online at: www.eXtasybooks.com

Divine Intervention By Frances Pauli

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orbin snorted, heaved a sigh that quaked mountainous shoulders, and glared into his ale. He considered quaffing it, but slammed the wooden vessel back to the table instead. “Torbin Steelspinner!” the barkeep’s voice chastised. “You’ll be buildin me a new table, seein as yer breakin that one.” “Steady, hag,” he muttered. “What’s that?” The ancient head tilted and a wrinkled hand pulled back spider-web hair. “What are you sayin?” “Steady, Meg,” Torbin said. “I won’t be breaking it.” He pushed away from the table and unfolded to his seven-foot frame. The chair legs scraped gouges in the hard-packed floor. Torbin dropped a stack of bronze coins onto the table and abandoned the beer. His mood was too sour for drinking. He ducked out of the canvas bar and into a frozen night—the same bloody, frigid, cold-ass night as always. It never changed. He shivered against the monotony. I’ve seen warm shores. That’s the problem. They’d raided too far, and the memory of exotic vistas had stowed away in his vision. 1

Devine Intervention Now home paled, frozen and as bitter as his untouched ale. He tilted his head, and white hair cascaded down his back. The Dragonfire streaked through the midnight dome, its neon ribbons twisting across the sky. A vivid moon danced below them. Pale light filtered his world into a silvery blue, setting the tent beside him aglow. The curving, wildcat finials grinned demonic smiles. “Torbin! Dog!” Sven’s voice boomed from the shadows. Drunk and growling, his squat, barrelshaped figure materialized from the darkness. Yonka Willobend hung from his right shoulder. She stood a good foot taller than Sven, and her blonde head rested on the top of his red curls. She swung her hips in a swirl of heavy skirts and flashed Torbin a grin. “G’night Sven.” Tobin nodded. “Yonka.” “Come and quaff with us, dog.” Sven’s slur said he’d been quaffing for hours. Torbin shook his head. The small braid at his temple swung in a silver arc. “I’m for having a walk.” “Bagh, a walk. You broody bastard.” Sven waved Torbin aside, wrapped a stump-sized arm around Yonka’s waist, and dragged her toward the bar. The girl turned once and smiled again at Torbin before they disappeared into the tent. Torbin growled, low in his throat and quiet 2

Frances Pauli against the night. He turned his broad back on the bar, the cluster of stretched tents, and the sound of socializing. The edge of camp broke on rocky slopes and fat evergreens dusted with snow. Torbin patted the shank of his hammer, slung in a thong across his left hip, and strode out of the ring of fires and company. He threaded through the trees for a pace, then found a deer trail and slipped along it across bands of shale and the crunching patches of frozen growth. Up here, the scrap of forest blocked his view of camp. The moonlit ledges sprawled at a gentle angle, and the sky opened wider overhead. The stars winked above the moon, and its beams drifted lazily to touch the ground. It’s the boredom that drives me away from them. They’d been home too long, fat and wealthy with the riches of the last voyage. But he doubted the others shared his unease, doubted Sven would ever yearn for more than this. Torbin yearned. His brow drew together and he gave the sky a good long stare. He yearned between travels, and he felt little relief when travel was finally upon them. There’s something wrong with me. I’ve got a bad spirit. He squinted at the stars and snorted. Had he displeased the Gods? Had his last offerings been slightly on the lean side? Had that star just moved? He focused. The blond hairs on his forearms stood at attention. The bright, blue star 3

Devine Intervention twinkled down at him. Torbin let his shoulders settle and relaxed his grip on the hammer. Stars didn’t move. He’d nearly convinced himself of the fact when it did it again. The blue light shot south, zigzagged in a short line and then blinked out. He waited. His breath slid in and out, an audible hiss against the silence on the slope. The star returned, as if it was a perfectly normal thing for a star to do, and twinkled at him—a demon’s eye. Torbin slid his hammer free. He raised the weapon and waited. The star brightened. He shook his head. The sky flashed blue, lighting the trees, lighting the stone ledge where he stood, legs spread and ready for battle. The light dove, brighter and larger with each passing breath. It plummeted to earth, a blue streak, a burning arrow shot directly at Torbin. He bellowed and raised his hammer. The demon star fell, blinding him. He swung the weapon at nothing, a mad giant haloed in the blaze of sky fire. Torbin swung and turned and swung again. The light built, grew thick and dense around him, then flashed once and went out. The wind howled across the vacant ledge. The trees whispered, and the Borealis twisted against a black sky looking down on no one. **** 4

Frances Pauli

Nesset pleaded with the Gods. She watched the incense smoke billow and cast shadows on the stone walls. She hadn’t done anything wrong, had only gone to the temple for the Gods’ sakes. Her lips tightened. Her innocence didn’t fix anything. They’d still come to kill her in the morning. She hissed an exhale and glared at the sigils she’d traced carefully in the sand. The tomb stank of death and stagnant air. The brazier crackled and sparked and cast the carvings into an eerie dance. The Gods had brought her to this—the Gods and too much attention from the wrong man. She closed her eyes and let the symbols dance across the blackness. Her thin lips moved. She whispered the prayers that would either save her, or damn her for all eternity. It hardly mattered which. In the morning, he’d send his priests. When the sun rose over the tomb, they’d come to sacrifice Nesset. She repeated the words again, rocking and hugging her arms tightly across her chest. Tomorrow her blood would stain the sands, but tonight she would pray for a miracle. The Gods had brought her to this, and as far as she could figure, they owed her one. ****

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Devine Intervention He’d died. Torbin blinked twice to test his theory. The world remained completely black. He was dead all right. He heaved a sigh and shrugged. Things could have been worse. At least he still had his hammer. He tied the weapon back against his hip and assessed his situation. He sat in the darkness, leaning against a smooth surface. His hands explored to either side along a floor that felt smooth, cold and covered in fine grit. He sniffed the powder that clung to his fingers. It smelled like dust. This was not the hall of the valiant. The Gods were displeased with him. He could touch the walls on both sides, only inches away. He tried to stand and found the ceiling far too low. For a moment, he feared he’d woken in a box, but the darkness in front gave to his reaching fingers. A tunnel stretched before him, and a test. He shifted to all fours and crawled. The passage continued for less than ten yards, slanting upward for the final third of the way. At the top, the darkness thinned, broken by a faint golden glow that revealed a much larger hallway. Torbin stood with his spine creaking. His stomach growled. The ceiling spanned the aisle only inches above his head, but he could stand here and took the opportunity to stretch. His neck cracked. He tilted it to either side, then squatted and flexed his 6

Frances Pauli knees. All the while, his eyes did their best to adjust to the scant lighting. Whatever the Gods intended to throw at him, Torbin planned to be ready. He stamped the feeling back into his furwrapped feet and took a tentative step along the stone tunnel. When nothing sprang to meet him, he continued, sidling ahead with one hand hovering above his weapon. This passage also angled and ascended as he walked, and the light, if his eyes could be trusted, grew a touch brighter. The dust lay thick on both floor and walls, and his footsteps raised small flurries of the fine powder. This passage ended in a T, with a wider hallway stretching to the left and right. Whether the light had brightened, or his eyes had finally adjusted, Torbin could only wonder, but he could see much farther along these aisles. Raised images lined the corridors, finely worked into the smooth stone. He frowned. These were not his Gods, nor did his people’s hands or any he had encountered craft these designs. He stared at the scenes, touched a figure softly, and then ran his fingers along the carved and painted lines. Never had he seen stone ground so smooth, or worked in such fine detail. Surely the Gods themselves had fashioned this place, but which Gods, and to what purpose? Torbin felt the 7

Devine Intervention first stirrings of fear, a tremble in the belly that he rarely allowed to surface. He snorted and reached to touch his hammer before following the carvings down the hall. At the first chamber Torbin met them. There was no mistaking these foreign Gods. They stood many times taller than the marching people, had been carved to tower over and command. His belly clenched at the sight. The horror of his predicament clarified. These Gods wore the heads of beasts, scowling down at the lines of worshipers through tusks, over long snouts and razor beaks. They waved tentacles and flippers instead of hands, and they wandered through the tiny people on huge, clawed feet. Torbin’s soul had truly lost its way. He moaned. There would be no tests, no chance to redeem himself in the eyes of his Gods. His Gods did not dwell here. They’d cast him beyond their reach. He would wander this foreign hell forever, lost—his stomach complained again—and hungry. Inside the room, gold gleamed. He swallowed hard, took a step, and suppressed a whisper of greed. Everyone knew you didn’t steal from the dead. Then again, his Gods were already displeased with him. He hovered inside the threshold and took in the sight. Gilded boxes piled around the room’s edge. Gem encrusted casks lay 8

Frances Pauli shadowed around a sarcophagus hammered from the precious metal. Torbin wet his lips. A statue of one beast God stared at him, its dog head painted golden, its eyes glinting with the gemstones set there. Just looking. He pressed his lips tight. I’m just looking at the bags of grain sandwiched between your treasures. I’m just looking at the wineskin hanging off a corner of that golden bed. His stomach gurgled. The tomb held more riches than he’d seen in all his travels, but it was the wineskin that kept his attention. He wet his lips again and took a step back. Another test, another torture. He would pass for now, but he’d mark this spot and remember. If he wasn’t dead, and his Gods had already turned away from him, it would do little good to starve. As he backed out into the hall, a soft sound drove him down into a crouch. He clutched the hammer shaft and held his breath, scanning the corridor ahead and behind. Nothing stirred. He exhaled silently, breathed in and took a shuffling crab step forward. The sound came again, a sniffling sound, the mewl of a small animal perhaps. Did the Gods permit hunting in this place? The sniffle grew louder. Gentle sobs joined it— not an animal, but some mourner for the dead or another lost soul wandering as he did. He stood upright and flexed his knees. Battle or company. 9

Devine Intervention Either way it beat wandering the alien afterlife alone. Torbin crept toward the noise, along one branch to the left, another to the right. He let it guide him and made quick mental notations of each turn. The glint of gold lay behind along with wine and food, and he was not about to lose his way back to it. At last, the light brightened. Flashes that could only come from flames danced against the stone walls. The cries continued, and Torbin froze, listened, and held his breath again. He slid his hammer free of the lacings without making a sound. A door broke the wall ahead, and the whimpering emanated from the room beyond, as did the firelight. Four creeping paces brought him to the gap, and he pressed tightly to the stone wall just beside it. The sound continued. His shadow fell far down the hall, distorted by the movement of the flames. With breath held, Torbin chanced a peek, leaning forward and back in less than one flicker of the flame. Whatever he’d expected, this foreign afterlife continued to surprise him. One diminutive form huddled over a low brazier. Torbin scowled. A fiercer enemy would have proven he still held some worth in the Gods’ eyes. A warrior or a beast might have been a challenge that could have redeemed his soul. He 10

Frances Pauli peeked into the room again, lingering this time without guard. A woman hunched behind the flame. Her slight body swayed in time with the fire’s dance. Torbin’s hammer would crack her like a dry twig. He clenched his teeth against the humiliation. Perhaps, if he killed her quickly, a greater enemy would appear, but killing women had never sat well with him. He closed his eyes. Sven was right, he was a broody bastard. His sulking had brought him to this. Only one avenue lay before him, and he sent a swift prayer that it would lead him closer to reconciliation with his Gods. Torbin raised his weapon. He let it hover at shoulder’s height for only a second before leaping into the doorway. He landed directly in the light and his howl vibrated through the stone room. His weapon hovered high over his blond head. The woman’s squeal drowned beneath the force of his battle cry. Her lithe body leapt like a cat, but once on her feet she froze, swaying with only the short brazier between them. It would prove no match for Torbin’s reach. One swipe and the hammer would extinguish her. I should swing now. Swing now. Swing. The hammer didn’t fall. Torbin frowned and stared into the woman’s eyes—huge dark eyes that fixed him in a fearless gaze. I really should kill 11

Devine Intervention her. But before he could move, the girl fell to the stone at his feet. Torbin’s scowl deepened. He’d failed, yet again. She lay with her knees tucked under and her torso flat against the stone. Her arms extended forward over her head in an attitude of supplication. Torbin snorted and lowered his hammer. The woman’s head lifted. Her eyes reflected the dance of flame. Her thin, painted lips pulled into a wide smile. Torbin shook his head. The depths of his suffering would never cease. The girl bowed to the floor before him again. Very pretty. I definitely should have killed her. **** Nesset shook her head and sighed. She swiped her delicate fingers across the sand, erasing the symbol her savior had drawn. Her thin eyebrows scrunched together. So far, their efforts at communication had proven less than fruitful. He could say her name. She’d pat her chest and he’d repeat it, his tongue protruding slightly as he formed the word. He traded his own for it— Torbin, a clunky sound against the dry tomb’s walls, but the symbols he scribbled across the floor made little sense. She shook her head, sighed, and frown at him. She took a turn, drew pictures for him, a 12

Frances Pauli crocodile, a flower. It was getting them nowhere. He shook his head at her latest string of images, and she sat back and dropped her chin into her hands. His language was just as much a mystery to her. He tapped a finger against the sand, insistent and stubborn as a mule. Nesset drew another symbol. She tried the trader’s language, but many years had passed since she’d studied, and it looked wrong. Before he could erase it, however, Torbin grunted. He pointed to her rough sigil. She pursed her lips and a songbird’s whistle warbled through the room. His long hair danced as he nodded. He knew bird. Hardly useful, but it was something. Torbin took a turn. She recognized this symbol, the one they used to signify death. The shadow that fell across his face confirmed it. He touched his chest again. “Torbin,” he said and pointed to the symbol. “Dead?” She stared at him, blinked, and tilted her head to one side. He repeated the motions. “Torbin, death, Torbin, dead.” Her eyes widened even farther and a smile twisted across her lips. She shook her head and giggled. She couldn’t help it. He thought he was dead? He even checked on her. “Nesset, dead?” Well, it wasn’t that far off. She stopped laughing. His scowl said he didn’t appreciate her 13

Devine Intervention humor. He sat back and brushed away the words with one boot. “Torbin,” Nesset said. He looked around the room, looked everywhere except at her. “Torbin!” He sighed, but finally met her gaze. She’d written another symbol, next to death. He’d know this one. Everyone knew the symbol for God. She pointed at him, and then touched the God sign. Had the Gods brought him to her or not? He nearly choked on his own laughter, but the chastising look she flashed him cut him short. He shook his head. “No. Torbin not God.” She took to scribbling again, drew a sign that meant gift next to God. She touched the sigils in turn. He only frowned. “Nesset, gift, God?” He shook his head. “I don’t understand.” She touched the symbols again, “Torbin, gift, God,” but this time she followed quickly with “Nesset, dead.” She mimed her own murder, and his big eyes stretched. “Nesset, sacrifice?” She drew a new symbol. If her Gods had brought him to save her, he would know it. “Torbin,” she let a sad smile touch her expression. Her fingers pointed out her message. “Intervention, God, Torbin,” she said it aloud. “Torbin, Nesset.” She managed to smile, pointing back and forth between, God and help. She could 14

Frances Pauli see it in his eyes. Torbin understood her meaning. Divine Intervention. He shook his head no, but it didn’t matter. You did what the Gods said. “No.” He crossed his hands over the writing to emphasize the point. Nesset kept smiling. “Torbin will save Nesset,” she said and touched Divine Intervention again. “Torbin.” He could have argued with her, but instead he leaned back against the tomb’s wall and shrugged. He would save her. Tomorrow the priests would come, and her prayers would be answered. Nesset brushed away both their writing and curled on her side into the sand to sleep. **** Torbin!” Nesset’s voice hissed next to his ear. The frantic tugging at his arm barely moved him. “Torbin!” He growled at her and pulled away, was halfway back to sleep when he heard the voices. He sat up with one hand automatically reaching for his hammer. Nesset wore a look of terror. She pointed to the far wall and spoke in a flow of unfamiliar sounds. The rumble of voices just reached them, muffled by the thick walls. He had the hammer ready when the stones scraped and a crack of light 15

Devine Intervention split around the square of one, man-sized brick. Nesset whimpered. Torbin didn’t remember when he decided to help the girl, but somehow, the sound of her fear drove him to action. He flashed a look around the tomb. Not much cover, but then, he preferred direct confrontations. Still, he stood and slipped quietly to a position in the shadows beside the moving block. Only a fool would waste the advantage of surprise when outnumbered, and from the sound of things outside, he faced a good-sized crowd. Torbin smiled. Let the Gods watch. Nesset cowered against the wall opposite the opening stone, and he motioned for her to stay there. He waited, tried to ignore the nervous glance she threw in his direction. Trying to save her seemed the right thing to do, but her blind faith in his success, he could live without. The stone fell forward with a final crash, and sunlight streamed into the room full force. It shone around Nesset, making her skin glow golden and her hair smolder with dark highlights. She blinked against it and brought a hand up to shield her face. Three men stepped through the gap where the stone had rested. They wore dark robes, heavy golden necklaces, and had no hair. Torbin hesitated. Each had only one weapon, and the small curved knives would be no match for his 16

Frances Pauli hammer. The leader pulled the blade free, however, and took a step straight for Nesset. His words might make no sense to Torbin’s ears, but they didn’t sound friendly. The priest advanced, and Torbin bellowed and leapt from the shadow. The knife flashed out once before his hammer struck its owner. The man crumpled to the floor. His fellows had time to look surprised before Torbin sprang between them. He swung the hammer in a wide arc, dropping them both just as their screams reached the crowd outside. He spun and leaped into the tomb’s doorway, blinking against the bright light. More voices answered. Torbin stepped through the opening and raised his hammer over his head. He struggled to see. Footsteps to his right sent the weapon down and out again. He felt it make contact and howled in triumph. He could only see shadows against a golden backdrop. The strong sun caused his eyes tear and squint. Footsteps whispered against sand in every direction, moving away rapidly. He held the hammer ready, his legs wide and braced against any attack. None came. The screams faded into the surrounding heat along with the footsteps. Torbin blinked and tried to open his eyes fully, but the world here blazed too brightly. He hesitated to 17

Devine Intervention lower the weapon long enough to shield his eyes. Blind and on guard, he waited, and breathed in air so warm he feared it would burn him from the inside. “Nesset!” He howled for the girl, prayed the priest’s knife had not found her. “Nesset!” “Torbin,” her voice whispered beside him. A soft hand settled against his arm and tugged until he lowered the hammer to rest. “Torbin.” He turned toward her voice and away from the light. Her smile spoke of their victory. Torbin nodded and raised a hand to shield his eyes. He saw nothing but sand ahead, huge drifts of gold wafting in all directions. He snorted. A noise answered back. The deep gargle made him think of Sven after a large meal. He spun toward it. A string of animals lay like mounds against the sand. They turned ugly heads in his direction and gargled again. Nesset slipped out of his reach, rushing to the legless animals and tugging at the leader’s tether. Its head swiveled in her direction from atop a long and sagging neck. “Nesset!” he called to her, but she continued to fuss with the poor creature. He shook his head. Any mount that slid along on its belly would not be fast enough to serve their purpose. Still, the girl pulled at the woven bridle and clucked to the thing. Torbin gave up. They’d have to out run any 18

Frances Pauli pursuit. Though his appearance might have scared Nesset’s people, Torbin had no doubts that they’d return, with better weapons next time. This time, he reminded himself, they had come wearing golden necklaces. He smiled and slipped back inside the tomb. **** Nesset fussed with the camel and watched her savior loot the priests’ bodies. His hair glowed white in the desert sun, like a halo. Shoulders wider than she’d ever seen shone pale and rippling with taut muscles. He was built like an ox, strong and sturdy and fully capable of beating off more than just a caravan full of priests bent on sacrifice. She needed him. The men who’d fled would bring back soldiers. Her eyes flicked down slope. They’d bring horses, but she doubted they would wander far from the city just to soothe a scorned priest’s ego. Still, wherever she went, Torbin at her side would make the journey safer. He’d have a home somewhere. He’d have people waiting there. Just because her prayers had summoned him, didn’t mean she got to keep him. He moved from the body in the sand to the doorway, vanishing back into the tomb, and 19

Devine Intervention Nesset’s heart stuttered. What if they whisked him away again? She’d need to act fast. Her lips mouthed the prayers again. Her fingers traced her sigils in the air. She held her breath and watched the doorway until Torbin’s form ducked back into sight. Divine Intervention. She was almost sure of it. If the Gods had taken them this far, perhaps, it wasn’t too much to hope. **** Torbin eyed his mount sideways and patted the pouch where he’d stowed the golden jewelry. The animal swiveled its head around at his touch, parted rubbery lips and gargled at him again. It stunk. Torbin wrinkled his nose and looked to where Nesset waited. She sat astride another of the beasts, had managed to unfold the great long legs beneath it. She grinned at Torbin and waved for him to hurry. He faced the animal, cursed and scrambled onto the fat hump. The mount immediately rocked forward and shot into the air. Torbin pitched to the rear, grappled with the saddle’s ropes, and managed to keep his seat. Nesset’s beast already ambled ahead. She kicked her legs and it dove forward, up the side of the surrounding dune. The setting sun flared 20

Frances Pauli behind their dual silhouette as they crested the hill and slid from view. The beast beneath him scurried after its leader, jostling his seat and leaving him no recourse but to cling to the ropes and pray for salvation. When they reached the dune’s apex, however, he nearly let go. A swath of golden sand sloped gently down to the horizon. In the distance, he could see the square shapes of a city, and beyond that—he held his breath—a wide sea sparkled. A sea. Torbin’s heart leapt. A sea would mean boats. With a boat, he could get home. “Torbin,” Nesset’s voice sang from the slope above. He turned from the cityscape and found her, smiling and waving for him to follow. Her mount faced uphill, where more dunes humped between sparse pinnacles of rock. She looked away from the city. Torbin understood. The city held her enemies. He frowned. If he could steal a ship, he could find a way to sail it home. He watched the flash of waves in the distance, but the sun that touched his forearms was warmer than he’d ever known it. “Torbin,” Nesset called. He turned back. The girl pointed ahead of her, nodded and repeated the gesture. She waved at him once more, then kicked her mount forward. The beast shuffled its broad feet up the slope. 21

Devine Intervention Torbin sighed and prodded his own animal into action. He tugged the rough rope and set the creature’s course to follow Nesset. The saddle pinched his thighs and the animal’s gait jarred his spine, but he’d already filled its bags with treasure. Nesset’s giggle wafted back to sooth the discomfort and, after all, who was he to argue with the Gods?

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About the Author Frances Pauli was born and raised in Washington State. She grew up with a love of reading and storytelling, and was introduced to Science Fiction and Fantasy at an early age through the books kept and read by her father. Frances claims to be allergic to genre labels, but describes her writing as speculative fiction with romantic tendencies. More information on her books, and writing can be found at: http://francespauli.com