The Crimson Throne (2021) Book 4 by Gordon Doherty

Author:Gordon Doherty [Doherty, Gordon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Roman Historical Fiction
Publisher: www.gordondoherty.co.uk
Published: 2021-04-15T00:00:00+00:00

Night came with a gentle warm mizzle that turned the gibbous moon into a waxy orb, the wet leathers of the bivouac village shining in its light. The small population of the valley camp chattered and laughed in the rain, passing round urns of wine, while a boar cooked on a spit over a large central fire. The Storm Priest who had fled Hattusa led his small band of templefolk in a slow traipse around the camp’s edge, praising Tarhunda whenever distant rumbles of thunder sounded. Next, three men brought out instruments made from the very woods around them – one had a drum, the other a set of pipes and the third a saz. They sat under an awning and played a soft and endless tune. Soon after they began playing, the audience started clapping as Puduhepa emerged from her and Hattu’s tent, leading a troupe of five other priestesses. Pirouetting and twisting around the central fire, she led them in a dance in honour of the Goddess of the Sun and Earth. Her cherry-red robes were soaked with rain, clinging to her curves, accentuating her long legs as she spun and swayed like a tree in a storm, her hair lashing like a ribbon. She sang as she danced, the five other priestesses shadowing her every move and golden note. Hattu watched, leaning against a pine trunk, a cup of wine in one hand and a hunk of boar meat in the other, besotted. His wife was a vision to behold, but so too were the others around the fire: so many faces, ruddy and fixed with smiles and hopeful eyes.

I will not let you down, he mouthed to them all.

A dangerous promise, Ishtar replied from somewhere deep within his mind.

As if turning his back on the Goddess, he drained his wine, stepped away from the pine and walked to the southern edge of the valley, and the two alder trees which served as gateposts for the camp’s entrance. The lookouts were expertly disguised, with mud on their faces, lying on the thick branches like gnarled twists of bark. The whites of their eyes widened when they saw him approach. ‘Prince Hattu,’ they said quietly, raising left fist salutes.

‘Stay alert, I will not be long.’

Hattu walked into the woods, moving slowly, his eyes closed, his other senses drinking it all in: the soft moss pleasantly cool on his bare feet, the brush of ferns on his knees. He unclasped his cloak and let it fall to the ground so he could feel the warm forest air on his unclothed chest. He ran the pads of his fingers across the bark of old trees, feeling soft, sticky sap every so often. The powerful scent of pine resin mixed with a rising petrichor in a heady vapour. His ears devoured every gentle crackle of fallen twigs underfoot, the endless song of night birds and the growl and chatter of the other creatures that thrived in this wilderness. When he heard

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