Rogue God: The Gods of Chaos Book 1 by Rick Waugh

Author:Rick Waugh [Waugh, Rick]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rick Waugh Multimedia
Published: 2023-06-30T16:00:00+00:00

Robin watched him for a while. He had a strong face, not an unkind one, now that it was relaxed; the worry was gone, the disquiet that always seemed to fill him. He needed a shave, the dark stubble curling out from his chin. His hazel eyes were, of course, closed, but she could see them moving, twitching under the lids. She wondered if he was back on the beach, fighting off the nightmares crawling out of the sea.

He seemed a decent man, which surprised her; his attitude when they met in the forest, the odd relationship with Shaman Bellows, the insinuations his uncle had made, had all led her to believe he was just another gutter scum Medial. Not that she’d known any Medials, but that’s how they were portrayed in the plains, low and barbaric, not too smart, consorting with the creatures, the abominations introduced to the world by Mischief in defiance of Lord Constantine.

She sighed, looked out over the ocean. It seemed there were many misconceptions taught in the plains, about Medials, about creatures. She’d learned so much since emerging from the well, forcing her to rearrange the entire way she regarded the world. What would her brethren think, what would the hierophant think, of what had happened to her, where she was now, what she’d done? How was all this going to affect her life as a priest? What would her straight-laced plains family think, her parents, her brother and sister?

Well, they wouldn’t learn about it if she could help it.

Her eyes when to the northwest, to where the Shattered Islands lay hidden by the mainland. She listened to what came from there, that low, mumbling voice in her mind, the chanting, that had invaded both her dreams and daylight hours ever since she’d arrived in Matheria. It had almost disappeared when she’d awakened as an angel, but the moment Mischief had removed the angel essence, it had roared back, so loud and overpowering she’d nearly fallen. If Cantor hadn’t grabbed her, she would have been lying on the deck of the Gallagher Star.

No words were audible, then or now; she’d walled it off, somewhat, somehow, using willpower to shape the small amount of magic she had. But the tone was insistent, the message simple: Come to me. That voice wanted her there, somewhere on the islands.

“No,” she whispered. “Whoever you are, whatever you are out there, I’m not coming. No matter where I end up, what I do…I’m not coming.”

The mumbling rose in volume, grew an angry edge; she felt the pull, the desire, that made her want to move, to stand and go. It was the same pull she’d felt by the well, but now the draw was west, to wherever it was the voice sat. She groaned a little. She shouldn’t have given it any attention, she knew that, should have just kept it at bay. A couple of breaths to focus; then she rebuilt her internal walls, the tight deflection she’d worked

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