Blood Of Gods (Book 3)

by David Dalglish

  The odor of food was still present, but she was no longer faceless. Every set of eyes that looked at her now did so expectantly, with reverence, as if welcoming a goddess back into the fold. The attention made Aully feel dirty, but not nearly as dirty as what she was about to do.

  Carskel gently nudged her onto the swaying causeway that crossed through the city’s central clearing. He kept his hand firmly gripped around her forearm, squeezing once they reached the center platform. Very slowly he spun her around, and Aully gazed in wonder at the multitude of people that waved and whistled from the various walks. She caught sight of Hadrik, Mella, and Lolly standing with their respective families, the only three faces Aully could see that weren’t smiling. They seemed sad. The three of them had been Aully’s friends since the cradle, and it had been those three who’d found her and her ragged group as they wandered home through the forest. But they’d only been there to put them at ease before Ethir and his henchmen rounded them up.

  They aren’t sad, Aully thought. They’re ashamed.

  “Wave to our people,” Carskel muttered out the side of his mouth. Aully looked up at him, her lips drawn tight in defiance. Her brother squeezed her arm even tighter, making her yelp, a sound that was swallowed by the raucous cheering. Aully caved, lifting her hand and fanning her fingers as she and Carskel circled in place. The cheering picked up a notch. “We love you, Aullienna!” someone shouted. “Our princess has returned!” said someone else. The platform she stood on rocked back and forth. Aully felt her insides clench.

  Carskel then knelt beside her, put his arm around her shoulder, himself waving and smiling at the crowd. “Look down, to your right,” he whispered into her ear. “But don’t you dare react.” Aully followed the jut of his chin, squinting as she gazed at the darkened area beneath the lowest walkway. At first she couldn’t make out what was there, but then Kindren stumbled forward, falling to his knees at the edge of the clearing. Kindren raised his head, staring up at her with pleading eyes. His face was marked with bruises, and his left shoulder was in a sling. For a moment Aully thought about leaping over the platform’s hempen rail. More than anything she wanted to call out to him, but she didn’t dare. Her eyes closed.

  “There is more,” Carskel said in his sweetly menacing voice.

  She peered through half-closed eyelids as her mother and more than two dozen other elves were shoved into the light. Aully looked on helplessly as Lady Audrianna pulled Kindren to his feet, wrapping her would-be son-in-law in a protective embrace. Kindren shuddered in her grasp, the Lady of Stonewood holding him tightly, as if squeezing the sobs from him. The rest of her troupe then gathered around, consoling him like they would their own child, until Ethir and his cohorts began to roughly separate them. Aully looked all around her, wondering why everyone was still cheering when thirty of their brethren were being mistreated in plain sight. Then she peered behind her, saw that the lower walkways on the opposite side of the clearing had been kept empty. From the vantage point of those on the upper skywalks, only the overhanging edge of the lowest domiciles would be visible.

  Aully took a deep breath, stilling her nerves.

  “You won’t hurt them,” she said.

  “So long as you keep your end of the bargain, no,” her brother replied, again in that sickeningly pleasant tone. “Make sure it remains that way. Your uncle is with us. It is time.”

  Carskel gave her shoulder a light squeeze and stood up. He was two heads taller than Aully and carried himself with an air that oozed royalty, but she knew it was nothing but a ruse. This was an elf who had brutally assaulted his own sister, violating her in the most depraved of ways. He was a monster.

  The platform began to shimmy, and Aully glanced down the walk to see her Uncle Detrick striding toward them. He looked dignified in his white robe, but she could see the anger hidden behind his easy smiles. His left hand was wrapped in beige cloth, hiding the empty socket where his index finger had once been, cut off when he dared raise his voice against his nephew. Detrick was an elf beaten, resigned to the role Carskel had given him.

  Detrick stopped halfway down the walk and raised his hands. The frenetically cheering crowd hushed.

  “Citizens of Stonewood Forest,” Detrick began. “My brothers and sisters, we have been rudderless for quite some time, but on this day we gather to welcome our royal family back into the fold. You all know Aullienna, my niece, your princess. Thirty days ago she returned to us, limping through the forest, desperate for home. This young girl has experienced horrors we can only dream of, losses that would send the best of us howling into our beds. Her father, our Lord Cleotis, is dead. Her mother, our dear Lady Audrianna, is seriously hurt, and her recovery is not certain.” Aully gulped at the words and glanced down at where her mother stood, but she could not make out the expression on Lady Audrianna’s face. Detrick went on: “However, she did not go through her ordeal alone. With her the entire time was one brave elf, a lost soul who has returned our princess to us, a brave warrior who saved the lives of many. He will help guide us through the trying times ahead. Are we ready to greet him?”

  The crowd roared, but the sound was half as vociferous as it had been. Aully then noticed looks of disapproval painting the faces of the elder elves. They recognize him, she thought. They know what he did. She felt Carskel stiffen beside her.

  Her uncle gestured to her and Carskel with an open hand. “And now,” he shouted, “Princess Aullienna!”

  Aully’s hands twitched, her knees shook. She knew the story she was supposed to tell by heart. She had been made to recite it daily whenever her jailers came to give her soup and bread: The humans of Paradise had turned rabid, the god Ashhur attacking Dezerea and putting countless of their cousins to slaughter. Her beloved brother, Carskel, who had been wrongly accused by Lord Cleotis, had returned from his exile to save his cherished family, freeing the prisoners from their bonds and leading the dash across western Dezrel. For months they’d hidden in the desert, avoiding the ravenous humans, gradually sneaking along endless dunes until finally wending their way home.

  A horrible lie, every last part of it. The truth, as she had learned during her uncle’s drunken and weeping late-night visits, was that Carskel had taken refuge in Quellassar during his hundred-year exile. He was a tool of the Quellan Triad and had convinced Ethir Ayers to take control of the forest city with promises of wealth and land. Her betrothal to Kindren, as it turned out, was a ruse to get Lord and Lady Meln out of Stonewood, to supplant them. From that day forth Carskel had ruled Stonewood in secret, waiting for the day his sister returned. Evidently, the plan had been to free Aully, and only Aully, so she could return home to become betrothed to her brother, solidifying the allegiance between Dezren and Quellan.

  Their escaping Palace Thyne had never been in the design, Ceredon’s righteous conscience never expected. Once more Aully damned herself for ever leaving Bardiya’s side. Had she never come back, her people would still be safe. Had she stayed put, Kindren’s life wouldn’t be in danger . . .

  The cheers died down and the crowd began to murmur. Carskel again squeezed her arm. He peered down at her, his phony smile faltering.

  “Go on,” he said, his voice full of worry. “You are wasting time.”

  She nodded to him and shook out of his grip. Stepping forward, she grasped the hempen rail and stared at the many expectant faces. She cleared her throat. “My people,” she said. “I have returned—”

  “Louder,” snapped Carskel.

  “My people,” she said, trying to gather strength in her throat. “After a long, harrowing journey, I have returned home. Words cannot express how joyous it makes me to see all of your faces, to once more greet friends I thought gone forever.” She shot a look at Hadrik, Mella, and Lolly. “This beautiful forest I never expected to see again. It fills me with . . . with . . . ”

  Her whole body was shaking. “I am happy,” she continued. “I am relieved. And that relief is all due to the elf you see behind me. This great e
lf who was framed for a crime he did not commit, a noble elf who was forced to live a hundred years away from the home and family he adored . . . an elf who will lead us into . . . into . . . ”

  She paused, glanced behind her at Carskel, saw him urging her to go on. Then she looked down at Kindren, Lady Audrianna, Noni, and Aaromar, flanked by their captors. Her eyes met her mother’s, and Lady Audrianna lifted her head proudly, emanating strength. Kindren did the same. Aully focused on them, on their tear-streaked faces, and saw Kindren mouth, No. Her eyes widened. She lifted her gaze to the heavens.

  Do I dare, Celestia? Please tell me what I do is right.

  A gust of wind blew, rattling the branches, swaying the platform, bringing goose pimples to her flesh. In its sound she heard her answer, cruel and unforgiving.

  “An elf who has spat in the face of our goddess!” she shouted. A shocked silence fell over the three thousand elves in attendance. Aully didn’t think about what she needed to say, she just said it, and was stunned by the volume of her voice. It seemed to carry for miles despite her diminutive size. “Carskel Meln, my exiled brother. He’s a liar, a fool, a murderer. He raped my sister, Brienna! He plotted our destruction! The goddess damn every last one of you who follows him into ruin!”

  A hand closed over her mouth, an arm wrapped around her waist, and she was yanked backward. The crowd erupted, this time in a din of angry, frightened shouts. Some began to throw vegetables from the skywalks.

  “Our princess is feverish!” Aully heard her uncle’s voice shout close to her ear. “Tired from the journey and delusional!” She bit down as hard as she could, drawing blood. Detrick shrieked and spun around, releasing her. She stumbled forward a few steps across the platform . . . directly into Carskel’s arms. Her brother spun her around and locked his hands around her waist, lifting her off the ground.

  “You have been a bad girl,” he murmured, his hot breath moistening her neck. “And bad girls need to be punished.”

  Detrick continued his pleading with the infuriated people of Stonewood Forest while Carskel spun Aully around and leaned against the thick hempen rail. The rope bowed outward so far that Aully feared it would break, sending the both of them plunging to the rock- and root-covered ground below. But the rope held.

  “Look what you wrought,” he said, forcing her to look to where her people were huddled in the shadows. They were being beaten by their captors, the sounds of their struggle drowned out by three thousand hollering voices. Already one lay dead: Aaromar, her mother’s protector, kind, handsome, and now nothing but a corpse with an arrow pierced through the eye. Aully looked on in horror as Noni was brought to the front, her upper body bathed in darkness. Unlike the others, the ancient elf did not struggle, tight-lipped resolve on her wrinkled face. Ethir appeared behind her, grabbing her by both shoulders. Noni gazed up at the girl who had been her ward for fourteen years, and she opened her mouth to scream.

  Aully never heard what her nursemaid had to say, as a moment later Ethir came down hard on the old elf’s head with a dagger. Noni’s eyes bulged, the dagger’s tip exiting below her chin along with a spray of pinkish blood. Her eyes rolled back and she collapsed, falling into Ethir’s arms like a fainting lover.

  Aully’s entire body went numb, and she collapsed just as Noni had. Carskel held her tightly, carrying her across the walkway, deftly avoiding flying fruit and sticks. The whole while, Detrick continued his pleading, declaring Carskel’s innocence and Aully’s lunacy.

  “You have been bad, my darling,” her brother said in a sinister whisper as they exited the walkway amid a mob of angry elves. Two of the Meln house guards appeared, shoving protesters aside. Carskel rounded the corner and began climbing the spiral stair back toward Briar Hall. “But all is not lost,” he said when no one was around to hear. “The people will come around . . . you will come around. Once I show you the cost of betrayal, you will have no choice.”

  Aully stayed silent, allowing him to carry her. She had seen her father murdered right in front of her. She had suffered in a dungeon, lived as a refugee, and became a prisoner to pain. It’d have been easy to succumb to it all, but her loved ones had shown her the way, defiant even before the face of death. Because of Carskel, she’d suffered, she wept, and now she swore to the last breath in her lungs to never give the bastard what he wanted.

  Not ever.

  CHAPTER

  8

  The bombardment began at sundown.

  The ground shook with the force of an earthquake, rattling Patrick’s teeth. He slipped off the rock he sat on, whacking his elbow on the ground. His wineskin slipped from his grasp and spilled across the grass. Preston and the Turncloaks, who were with him around the fire, similarly lost their balance. Little Flick even teetered into the flames, scalding his meaty hand in the process. All around them, the defenders of the wall broke into panic.

  “What the fuck?” Patrick shouted, turning his eyes upward, toward the wall and dark purple sky looming above him. Another massive thud then sounded, ringing in his ears. Bits of rock and dust misted down from the top of the wall.

  “They’re attacking!” said Preston’s son Edward.

  “They can’t be!” Joffrey Goldenrod said. “They haven’t finished their towers!”

  “Climb the wall and see then!” shouted Tristan Valeson.

  Patrick heard an odd whining sound and threw his arms around the closest man to him. “No, you dumb shits!” he said, collapsing on top of young Ragnar Ender. “Get down!”

  A massive black shape soared over the wall, crashing against the upper parapets and sending large chunks of brick and stone careening to the earth. It was like a deadly rain pounding all around them. The black shape continued its flight, dropping ever lower until it smashed down a hundred feet away, right atop a small gathering of confused people, crushing bodies and hurling chunks of dirt into the air. Now unmoving and in the light of their fires, Patrick saw it was a boulder the size of a small hut, gray and craggy. Screams of pain erupted, filling the early evening with terror.

  “The catapults!” Preston shouted. “They’re using the catapults!”

  Of course they are, thought Patrick. He should have known this was coming. It had been almost five weeks since the first failed assault on Mordeina’s walls, and the people within were beginning to grow careless. Since that day they had done nothing but watch from afar as the besieging army busied themselves with building engines of war. By last count, they had a dozen working catapults and four siege towers. Master Warden Ahaesarus surmised they would not bring an offensive until the entirety of their force was ready. After the last failed attempt, Patrick had thought Karak would just wait them out until their depleted food stores ran out completely.

  They were wrong.

  Patrick rolled to the side, grabbed his discarded helm, and threw it on his head. Luckily they had just finished supping and he hadn’t yet removed his mismatched armor. He hurried to his feet and spun around in search of Winterbone. The dragonglass crystal adorning its hilt sparkled in the light of the flying embers, and he snatched the huge, trusty sword in his mitts. This time, he wasn’t getting caught without his blade.

  He could hear wailing in the background as he slung Winterbone’s scabbard over his shoulder and began to make for the wall steps, followed by the Turncloaks, the newly trained archers, and a large cadre of Wardens. The Drake spellcasters were nowhere to be found. Patrick’s insides rumbled, the wine he’d drunk jostling about in his belly. The scent of rot was much stronger than it had been five weeks ago, making bile rise in the back of his throat. It’s only a reaction—I’m not truly sick, he thought. Many had fallen ill from drinking the city’s water, despite Azariah’s best efforts to keep it clean. There were thousands of sick, filling each day and night with the sound of puking and shitting. It became a full-time effort for the healers, which now included Warden Azariah’s ever-growing army of students, to cure their sickness. Even so, there were many who succumbed to dysentery before having th
e chance to be healed. Their bodies were stashed in a small space to the right of the inner gate, heaped atop those who had died during previous assaults, to keep the settlement relatively free of further rot and disease. With every square inch of space required to keep so many people housed and fed, there was nowhere to bury the corpses. They would have to wait.

  Ignore it, Patrick told himself. Think of Nessa instead of your stomach.

  He did, and anger gradually cured his ills.

  Still more heavy impacts rumbled as Patrick reached the bottom of the stairwell. Ahaesarus stood there, handing out bows to those who required them. Their eyes met and Ahaesarus nodded to him, as if he could see the fury burning behind his eyes. Patrick passed him by and led the charge up the stairs, his muscles not aching this time, though he could still feel a dull throb in his knees. Even the vibrations brought on by the collisions couldn’t shake him. Ever since that first assault, he’d dedicated himself to running up and down these stairs five to six times a day, getting his body used to it. Now it was easy, though his mismatched legs would always offer him at least a little discomfort.