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False dawn began to lighten the sky and Gralyre risked a
glance behind. Horror almost stole the heart of him.

Eight figures ran effortlessly along the snowy track, easily
gaining on the foundering horses. Their legs cycled tirelessly,
never faltering, never slowing.

Their arms dangled limply at their sides. They ran not as men
ran, for men would be using their arms vigorously, pumping
them up and down in an effort to gain more speed. These
creatures ran using only their legs. Their slack jaws bounced
with their rough gait, but no fog of breath exited. Some bore
gaping wounds from their deaths earlier in the evening, but the
injuries hindered them naught. Without a pause in their
mechanical strides they lifted their heads and screamed at their
fleeing prey. The panicked horses leapt ahead even faster.

Ahead of them, silhouetted black against the bruised sky was
Hangman’s Tor. It was at least fifty feet to the crest upon which
Gralyre could make out metal cages swinging from poles.

He glanced back over his shoulder. Gods! ’Twas going to be
close; a race between the horses, the Deathren and the Dawn!



The Exile

Lies of Lesser Gods
Book One

L.G.A. McIntyre

Per Ardua Productions Inc.
Vancouver, Canada

Text and Illustrations Copyright © 2013 by Linda G. A. McIntyre

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.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without
permission in writing from the publisher.

For information about special discounts for bulk purchases please contact
Published by Per Ardua Productions Inc
103-1450 Laburnum Street
Vancouver, Canada
V6J3W3
www.perarduaproductions.com

Printed in the United States of America by CreateSpace
Trade Paperback edition September 2013

ISBN: 978-0-9919120-0-1

For all the strong women in my life
You inspire me

the Sister, the Mama, the Barbies and the Whores
Love you all.





PROLOGUE

Men scream rage and fear. Sword smashes against sword in chaotic battle. Raw grief and despair; his
men die, one by one. He stands alone in a sea of blood; the tide is against him. The wave of evil cannot be
stopped. It crashes over him, crushes him, brings him to his knees. A prisoner.

A Demon’s face slowly emerges from a boiling red mist. Its eyes burn with evil and triumph. An
executioner’s sword hangs suspended for a wild moment.

Terror! Cannot move! Cannot Escape! I will not cry out!
The sword drops. Sunlight sharpens the edge; his terrified visage, a distorted reflection in metal, chases
the blade towards his neck. The sword bites and he is wrenched into the swirling blackness of forever...
forever, but not the end…
Agony harries him into an infinite night, a void that has never seen starlight. All is pain. The void pulses,
the chamber of a giant heart, flaying his soul in a savage rhythm.
I am lost, I am everywhere, I am the universe…the void pulses…I am nothing, I am smaller than the
smallest grain of sand.
For brief flickers between he is himself, eroding with every violent cycle to slip away into the grinding
maw of the voracious darkness.
This then, is death; this then, is my punishment for failure.
Wildly thrashing limbs produce no movement. They do not exist here. Screams from blinding suffering
go unheard. Infinity swirls and boils, terrifying, with no eyes to shut against it. Whatever power tortures
him, forces him to gaze into the face of eternity.
Torment and time. It is forever; it is a split second. Sanity slips further from his grasp. Madness
degenerates into soundless howls and disembodied thrashings.
Into the black chaos, colors swirl, growing brighter, forcing the darkness to recede. Vivid greens and
yellows, blues and reds, swirl faster and faster.
He fights to escape as he is sucked into the vortex of color, birthed back into the land of the living…

DREISENHELD - SPRING

The Master sits the throne with regal boredom. Interest flits from one distraction to the next. After so
many years, familiar vices lack the excitement and intensity of old, yet they beckon still. The ritual has a
life of its own.

Even the assembled creatures mirror their Master’s mood. Their half-hearted tortures do little to lift the
ennui. The rhythm and horror of Dreisenheld goes on, a habit, an addiction that no longer sates the Master’s

appetites.
Distraction arrives from an unexpected source. It is a tickling of the senses only, nothing more, yet it

persists like a fading note struck off key. Gradually the dissonance draws the Master’s attention. Something
has changed in the world.

The dawning of recognition sears away the tedium and the Master surges from the gilded throne. The
assembly cower and squeal at the unexpected movement. But they are not the targets this time.

The Master weaves magic, straining, seeking. But the trace is too small, is fading, is gone.
Frustration lashes out at demons foolish enough to have crept closer. Blood sprays the walls and floors,
overlaying other, more ancient stains.
“Get out! All of you, out! Send me a Stalker! Send me Sethreat!” The command rings out over the
moans and cries of adulation.



The Master’s red lips part, teeth bared not as a smile, but as a threat of aggression. A long, sharpened
fingernail, gilded in purest yellow gold, traces ancient blade scars that mar each reptilian cheek of the
Stalker, Sethreat.

“You, my hunter, have been with me from the beginning,” the Master croons. “He gave you these scars.
No one knows him as you do.” The golden nail re-opens the scar tissue as it passes, and draws forth a thin
bead of blood from the Stalker’s scaled cheek; a warning of greater magic that could be unleashed. “And no
one is to know that he has returned.” The now bloody nail passes between ruby lips, a tongue flicks forth to
taste.

“Yes-ss, Master!” Sethreat quivers in ecstatic horror of the Master’s threat, of the Master’s touch. The
Master’s word is law, and the law is absolute.

The Master stares deeply into the Stalker’s eyes, measuring the creature’s compliance, savouring the
absolute terror. The most terrifying killer in all the lands trembling in fear of my touch. Is there more
delicious ambrosia?

The Stalker cannot hold the Master’s burning gaze for long. Sethreat’s gaze drops, awaiting the Master’s
pleasure with tail cowered tightly between legs. Blood drips from snout to floor, a quiet splash to the
demon’s preternatural hearing.

Satisfied, the Master stalks back up the stairs to the dais, and reclaims the throne in a flurry of ermine.
“Seek out unrest. That is where you will find him. His coming is the dawning of an epoch. The end of days
has come, but not for us… no, not us! He has returned, and we shall live forever!”

The Stalker flinches from the exaltation in the Master’s voice, a sound more terrifying than rage, but the
echoes resonating within the empty marble chamber are inescapable.

“Bring him to me alive. Only then will the world be remade in our image. Fail me, and I will slit your
throat and slake my thirst with your blood!”

Sethreat cringes low, belly to floor, backing away through silent pillars until passing through the
massive bronze doors where the Master’s burning gaze can no longer be felt. Only then does the Stalker
dare to stand and shuffle quickly away down the filthy corridor. Grating sounds of claws on marble echo
amongst the silent, watchful columns of Dreisenheld. The Stalker’s throat is tight. It must find The Man. It
dares not fail.
THE HEATHREN MOUNTAINS - SPRING

“What is this foolishness?”
Catrian Kinsel glanced up at the demand, but did not cease saddling her mount. “Uncle.” The high
mountain breeze teased fitfully at her chestnut brown hair as she cinched a strap tighter.
“Answer me.” The Commander of the resistance reached out and stilled her hands. “Ye are going after
the Tithe.”
Catrian stiffened but did not look at him. “We have talked o’ this.”
“I thought ye had abandoned this nonsense. It was decided.”
Catrian jerked her hand out from under her uncle’s and spun to glare up at him. “No. Ye decided! Every
year, we grow weak-er! Hiding! Waiting! And still ye will no’ see reason. The secret o’ the Tithe is pivotal
t’ breaking Doaphin’s hold upon the land. I can feel it, I have seen it.”
Commander Boris Kinsel’s face creased into a scowling map of hard roads taken. “Then let someone
else unravel it. Ye are too important t’ risk.”
Catrian was shaking her head in denial before his words were finished. “We have tried that. No one ever
returns. ’Tis useless!” she dismissed.
The wind stilled for a moment as they glared at each other.
The sudden quiet shifted her gaze to an inner distance that only she could perceive. Her voice softened,
hushed by despair and prophecy. “I see tides o’ destruction and pain bearing down upon us, and we are no’
ready…we…” Her awareness refocused on Boris as she drew a deep breath to calm herself. “I look t’ the
future, and all I see is death.” Her voice resonated with the strength of her distress.
Boris’ weathered hands came to rest on Catrian’s shoulders. “Ye think that ye are indestructible, that
your magic protects ye, but ye must see reason. Ye must remain hidden! Safe!”
Doaphin the Usurper would allow no challenge to his power. In a land where a talent for magic carried
an edict of death, Catrian was a precious rarity, a prized asset of the resistance.
She glared at her uncle, unwilling to allow the old arguments and fears to sway her this time. “What use
am I as a weapon, if ye will no’ use me?”
Boris’ hands flexed at Catrian’s challenge. “What use is a weapon that is thrown away? A weapon
wasted? The Tithe is naught but Doaphin’s plague! Another way t’ lessen and abase mankind.”
Catrian shrugged her shoulders out from under Boris’ grip. “If that is all it is, why does he guard his
secret so tightly? What becomes o’ the women?”
In the face of Boris’ tight closed expression, Catrian sighed heavily and rubbed a tired hand across her

brow, marshaling her arguments. She did not want to fight with her uncle, but she would have her way in
this. Her nightmares of late had been consuming. The implications were clear.

“I have tried, but even my power is no’ strong enough t’ pierce the shroud o’ magic within which he
hides the truth. If the Tithe were unimportant, there would be no reason t’ guard the secret so closely. There
is only one path left untaken. My gifts place me in a unique position t’ unveil the truth and return.”

“And should ye fail? Should ye disappear, as has every other who has taken this journey? What will
become o’ the resistance then? What good does the truth do us if we canno’ make use o’ it?”

“Look around, Boris. Should I stay, or should I go, we have already lost the war! If the resistance ever
challenged the Usurper’s rule, those days are long gone, generations past. Every year, we become weaker,
and he becomes stronger. Ye see me as some sort o’ magical charm t’ stave off extinction, when the truth is
that Doaphin takes less notice o’ us than he does a fly buzzing round his soup.

“The Tithe is something important t’ him, something that can truly hurt him, and ’tis a victory that only I
can win! ’Tis the key t’ everything! Without the Tithe, Doaphin will be diminished, and perhaps defeated! I
promise ye!”

Boris glared down at her for a long moment, before his rigid back seemed to cave slightly. “Ye will
bring a contingent.”

Catrian knew capitulation when she heard it, and had to work to keep the excitement from her voice.
“Agreed.”

“Ye will take no unnecessary risks. If ye are discovered…”
Catrian looked up at her uncle with great affection. “I will be careful. If anything feels awry, I will
abandon my plans.”
“Where will ye allow yourself t’ be taken?”
“Verdalan’s Tithe is due within the month.”
Boris was shaking his head. “No. ’Tis too soon. Ye will no’ go until I am certain all eventualities have
been planned for, until I have hand picked your guard, and until I am certain ye will be as safe as possible.”
Catrian felt a momentary flash of anger at her lack of auton-omy, but recognized the wisdom of Boris’
words. She had been foolish to think she could leave quietly. There was little that escaped the old warrior’s
notice.
Suppressing a sigh, Catrian’s gaze turned inward for a moment. “The Tithe will strike Raindell in the
fall.” As she suggested the small village, something clicked in her mind, as it often did when a path was
rightly chosen. Raindell was deep in the heart of the enemy’s territory. The Usurper would not expect
trouble from such a pacified area.
Boris nodded once in agreement. “Raindell. We have a good man there. Wil Willson. If ye do no’
abandon this nonsense, he will see ye safe.”

CHAPTER ONE

RAINDELL - FALL

Enigma rise from out o’ mist,
Spirit waken with a roar,
Dragon perched on vengeful fist,
Fell Usurper rule no more!

The snippet of child’s rhyme cycled in Dara’s mind, spinning her further away from the world of
hysterical weeping and screaming. She curled tightly at the bottom of the caged wagon, trying not to
remember that her mother had not survived this journey.

Tithe or annihilation. That was the choice given to the peoples of this benighted land; the choice always
given, the shameful compliance always granted. The women of child-bearing age were herded into the
Tithe wagon, ripped away from husbands and children, from fathers and brothers. It was the price of
existence under Doaphin the Usurper’s rule.

Dara clung to the memory of the promise in her father’s eyes, the rage in her brother, Rewn’s, tight
clenched face. They would come for her. They would rescue her. None of the other women present could
boast so.

Dara squeezed her eyes tighter, her hands clamped to her ears, the rhyme repeating, blocking the
screams.

The wagon careened down the ill-kept road, the horses blow-ing and grunting in an effort to keep the
pace. A wheel hit a large rut, bouncing the women high into the air before slamming them back into the
wagon bed. Dara whimpered and grabbed her bruised shoulder, curling tighter. They would come for her.

She need only endure for a while.
Her father had made plans to send her to the mountains, to go to the Rebels, where she would have been

safe from the Tithe. She had dreaded the journey, had dreaded leaving her family, and had fought with her
father over the decision.

She had been but four years old when the Demon Riders had last visited Raindell, and had only a vague
memory of the loss of her mother. As such, the Tithe had been naught but a nebulous, far off threat, and her
father unreasonable in his fear. Dara wiped her tears, leaving dark stains on her cheeks from the filth of the
wagon. Now she understood.

Strong arms reached out and gathered her into a comforting circle. “Hush now, all will be well.”
Dara bit her lip and clung to Catrian, the mysterious woman who had arrived at their farm in the dark
hours several days past. Her father had said she was a Commander in the resistance. Dara could well
believe it. Even now, there was little fear in her face.
Dara was too ashamed to speak. Her voice would betray her terror. She had fought hard against this
woman, had treated Catrian with terrible rudeness, for she had suspected that her father had summoned her
to carry Dara away to safety.
“I will no’ let them harm ye,” Catrian promised softly.
Dara glanced wildly at the whooping, laughing Demon Riders accompanying the caged wagon. Then
back into the calm hazel eyes of the woman comforting her.
“Trust me. All will be well. Keep down, and do no’ draw their attention.”
“I want t’ go home,” Dara whispered.
“I know.”
Catrian cuddled Dara closer, stroking her hair soothingly, while her thoughts roiled and thundered at the
injustices of life. Home was no longer safe. Every season there were fewer safe places in the world. Catrian
feared that all too soon, no refuge would remain, and the age of man would be over. The wagon thundered
onward, for the horses were unable to feel the terrible weight that bowed her shoulders.
Catrian sighed heavily, regretful that she had not told Wil Wilson of the coming Tithe so that he could
see his daughter safely out of harm’s way. But she had learned early that survival meant keeping her own
council. Her role within the resistance was too important, her power too vital to the rebellion, to court a
chance at betrayal, not even for someone Boris trusted as completely as Wil.
She could only pray that, when the time came, she would be strong enough to save not only herself, but
Wil’s daughter as well.
When the sun was high, the Demon Riders halted the wagon briefly to swap out the exhausted horses.
Food and water were tossed at the women through the bars of the cage.
Catrian stopped Dara before she could lift a fatty chunk of meat to her lips. “Drink the water, but do no’
touch the meat.”
Dara looked at the meager food in her hand and her stomach rumbled loudly. The other women were
tearing into the meal, fighting for the last scraps. “Why?”

Catrian’s lip curled in disgust. “’Tis no’…meat.”
Dara’s fingers squeezed the lump of flesh. Not meat. Not meat one should eat. The impact of
understanding made her gag and drop the scrap. Three women dove for the chunk. Dara gagged again.
Catrian quickly passed her the water skin. “Drink. Drink and breath,” she hissed.
“But the others!” Dara whispered hoarsely, “We must stop them. They must no’…”
“No. Let them be. We must no’ draw attention. And this poor soul is already gone. Let them find what
comfort they can.”
Dara glared at Catrian with disbelieving horror. Only the squelched tears of rage in Catrian’s eyes had
the power to stop her from screaming the truth at the other prisoners.
Catrian took back the water skin, saving it against their future need. She hoped that one of the abused
horses faltered soon. To what lengths would they be driven when starvation took hold?
The brief rest was over. The wagon set off at the same reckless pace. The outriders took up their
positions, to taunt and abuse.
Through it all, Catrian’s hard fought calm was tested. With a mere flexing of power, she could destroy
the ‘Riders and free these women, but that was not why she was here. She looked down at the young
woman huddled across her lap. Not even for Wil’s daughter could she be so reckless. The Tithe had to end.
And she was the only one who could end it.
Many weeks of abuse lay ahead before they would reach any destination. And then the Gods only knew
what she would have to endure. She, who had never been helpless, would have to play her part carefully
lest she betray herself.
The butt of a spear glanced off her chin, knocking her sideways into the opposite bars of the cage,
punishing her inat-tentiveness. Catrian gritted her teeth to control her instinctive rage, schooling herself to
cower and scream, as were the other women.
The Demon Rider laughed, well pleased with her perfor-mance. He did not look closely enough to see
the calculation in hazel eyes. He had already turned his attention to a new victim.
Dara had also believed the performance. Her terror ripped sobs from deep within as she helped Catrian
to right herself.
Catrian drew her into a tight hug. “’Tis alright. I am alright.” Her jaw hurt to talk, but she had to calm
Dara. One misspoken word would betray them to their deaths. “’Tis an act. A play,” she whispered
urgently, “They need t’ see what they expect t’ see. That is all. If I do no’ behave as the others, I will stand
out. We both will. Just an act, just a play.” She repeated the words, over and over, until Dara stopped
sobbing.
“Just an act. Just a play,” Dara echoed numbly.
“That is right.” Catrian drew back and was encouraged by the color returning to Dara’s face. “If we cry,
’tis only for their benefit. Fool’s tears for fools!”