Blood Of Gods (Book 3)

by David Dalglish

  Those who remained of Ki-Nan’s original large force followed behind Bardiya, picking off any who escaped the giant’s devastating slashes. At one point the soldier whose life Bardiya had saved, the one who, along with Clovis, had then butchered the children on the dais, crossed his path. The young soldier threw down his arms, pleading. Bardiya sliced him in half from head to groin, thinking nothing of it. His mind was focused on a single objective: Kill, kill, kill.

  It was visceral. It was liberating. It was pure.

  As the sun began to sink below the horizon, the battle ended. In the aftermath Bardiya hovered over the heaped remains of his enemies. He shuddered and dropped his sword, marveling at the destruction. There had to be five hundred corpses strewn about the camp, and another two hundred injured, pulling themselves through the sand as they whimpered and gasped their dying breaths. The vast majority of the dead were elves, their perfect flesh hacked and shredded. Bardiya looked down at one of them, a Quellan who was still writhing, and stomped on his head, crushing it.

  Dear Ashhur, has this always been my purpose? Is this what you made me for?

  He flexed his hand, his elbow, his knee. Despite the sting of the many stab wounds and slashes that pierced his skin, he felt better than he had in ages. It made no sense, not when he had lived his life in constant agony from his forever growing body. Instead of making him feel vital, it only caused his newfound anger to rise.

  “Bardiya,” said a tired voice. “Brother, I am sorry.”

  The giant slowly turned, and there was Ki-Nan, kneeling with those who had arrived with him. Tuan was kneeling as well, and Yorn, and so many of the others who had remained in Ang. Bardiya looked down at his old friend, breathing heavily.

  “Brother, we had to wait,” Ki-Nan said. “We have been wai—”

  “It does . . . not . . . matter,” Bardiya growled.

  He glanced up at the remains of the camp, at Ceredon, who still remained, motionless, atop his wagon, at men and women dressing the wounds of the injured, at fathers and mothers crying; tears of agony for their slain children, tears of joy for those who survived. There was sound all around him, but it was wailing and moans and the final breaths of the dying that he heard. There was no singing. Somewhere inside him, he knew the songs of joy and love and life had died, possibly forever.

  “If I am but your tool, your Grace, I do not belong here,” he whispered.

  “What was that?” asked Ki-Nan.

  “Gather up all who can still fight,” Bardiya said. There was ice in his veins. “Scan the dying for Karak’s soldiers, find out what they know about the whereabouts of the eastern army.”

  “I will, but why?”

  Bardiya cast his eyes to the north.

  “Because I’m going to kill a god.”

  CHAPTER

  22

  The sun set over the desert, revealing a wide, cloudless sky filled with millions of twinkling stars. The Black Spire shimmered in the faint light, though its glow seemed strange, unnatural, as if the great and mysterious obelisk were somehow lit from within.

  Ashhur’s dark-skinned children were making preparations for their journeys ahead. The women, the old, and the infirm were given carts and horses to assist them on the trip back to their home by the sea, while the healthiest of the men—both those who had been marched as prisoners and the horde that had arrived later, bearing weapons of steel—mounted their own borrowed steeds to begin their march north.

  Ceredon watched it all, still strapped onto the plank above the wagon. Everyone ignored him, even when the very cart his plank was affixed to was pilfered of useful goods. The Quellan prince’s befuddlement grew. Unable to free himself, he struggled in his bonds as Darakken butchered the children, the demon instigating the spiritual leader of the Kerrians until the giant lost his mind and revolted. He’d been helpless when even more western men descended on the standing army, taking them by surprise, their ferocity and force of will helping to counteract the elves’ and soldiers’ far superior skill with sword and maul. He’d had no choice but to look on while the demon’s decrepit human shell jumped and cheered atop his dais, seemingly overjoyed by the massacre going on below him until the giant confronted him and smashed the demon’s skull.

  It loosed a monster upon the land, he thought as he stared at Bardiya. A creature powerful enough to decimate two hundred men on his own. Why would the demon do that?

  While all items of use were being packed away, Ceredon kept his eye on Bardiya as the giant worked his way through those who suffered with grave injuries, offering each one a healing touch before moving on to the next. The glow of his hands seemed faint, the healing not as potent as it had been when Ceredon watched him stitch back together the soldier he had gutted the day they’d arrived at the site of the Spire. Those who received his touch would struggle to their feet, still in obvious pain, and limp along until they joined their brethren. It was a gloomy spectacle, the cold yet determined expression on the giant’s face. Just as in Dezerea, Ceredon felt guilty for how harshly he had judged these tortured people, and even guiltier for the harsh words he had shouted from his slab.

  Why must there be such suffering?

  “Such is the way of life, the way of the universe,” came the reply. He wasn’t sure if it was the goddess or his conscience answering.

  In the end he received his penance. When the carts were filled and the horses bridled, the two separate groups complete, the Kerrians began their separate journeys. One of Bardiya’s men pointed Ceredon’s way, the giant having to bend down to hear the whispered question. He then stood up straight, gazing at the bound elf.

  “Let him free,” the giant said in a rasping voice that echoed throughout the sandy dell. “It was his voice we should have listened to long ago.”

  One of the soldiers came and scaled the side of the wagon, stood on the rickety roof, and cut his bonds. Ceredon slumped to his knees, throat parched, back and arms aching from his imprisonment.

  “Water?” he asked the man who’d freed him.

  “Bardiya said to let you free. Didn’t hear nothin’ about water.”

  At that the man joined his brethren, leaving Ceredon alone among the carnage. A silent command given, the humans departed the area, leaving Ceredon alone among the shattered wagons, innumerous corpses, and thirteen bound and dying soldiers of Karak who had failed to flee. Glittering above them all was the Black Spire. With the din of civilization now departed, he could hear the throaty purring of the sandcats as they stalked the area, drawn by the scent of blood and the promise of an easy meal. A cold wind blew, and a violent shiver rocked his bones.

  A metallic clank reached his ears, and his adept eyes caught movement along the ruins of the collapsed dais. Instead of the sandcat Ceredon expected, a human form emerged from the wreckage. The man stood tall, cracked his back, and then brushed himself off. When he turned his way, Ceredon saw the man’s face; the long, dark hair; the diamond-shaped scar on his left cheek.

  “My prince, are you alive?” Boris Marchant asked.

  It took Ceredon a moment to remember that human eyes could see nowhere near as well as his own. “I am. And I believe I told you not to call me prince.”

  Boris chuckled.

  “Aye, that you did. I hope, given today’s circumstances, you’ll forgive me for the blunder.”

  Ceredon slowly climbed down off the wagon, standing uneasily on tired legs as Boris joined his side.

  “You took your time freeing me,” he said. “In fact, I dare say you never did.”

  “Apparently not. Again I apologize. I told you, I needed to wait until the moment was right, until it was safe.”

  “So you waited until the demon set off the giant and got his entire regiment slaughtered?”

  The human laughed. “Well, let’s just say that I didn’t know when it would be safe. I had hoped it would be before my friends from the west launched their assault, but I had no way of knowing Darakken would be so . . . careless.”

  “Y
ou knew of the humans trailing us?”

  “I did,” Boris said with a nod. “The one who led them I’ve known for quite some time. He is a pupil of my uncle and a very capable man. He and his people have been following the convoy since we departed Ang, waiting for their opportunity.”

  Ceredon shook his head, trying to push through the cobwebs in his mind. Something wasn’t adding up.

  “They can’t have followed us for so long without my brothers spotting them.”

  “They were spotted,” Boris said, shrugging. “Darakken didn’t seem to care. He laughed and told the elves to ignore them.”

  Ceredon turned his attention to the thirteen men of Karak still bound and gagged. Boris’s eyes followed, and the scarred man frowned deeply.

  “Give me a moment,” he said, drawing a dagger. “I’ll take care of them.”

  “No,” Ceredon said, grabbing the man’s arm. “The crows and sandcats will be here soon. Let vermin die by vermin.”

  Boris raised an eyebrow, hesitated a moment as if in disbelief, and then sheathed his dagger.

  “Damn,” he said. “I thought I was cold. So what now?”

  “I was hoping you would tell me. So far you have been the one with the plan.”

  “That I am.” Boris clapped the elf on the shoulder. Ceredon knew he should be insulted by such familiarity between a human and himself, but at the moment, he decided he didn’t care. “Well, you’re free to go, Ceredon. Return to your home and tell your people of the need for cooperation with the humans who share your land. My Connington uncles will be more than receptive to any talk of compromise between our peoples.”

  “We’ve lost so many,” Ceredon said, casting his eyes to the dead. “Perhaps it is finally time we sought peace instead of bloodshed.”

  “I’m thinking that time was months ago,” Boris said, winking. “But as they say, better late than . . . ”

  Boris’s voice was cut off by a loud cackle that shook the sand beneath their feet. A blinding purple light followed, shining from the Black Spire and causing both Ceredon and the human to cover their eyes and turn away. The cackling eventually died down, the light dimming, but not completely flickering out.

  “What was that?” asked Boris, his voice frantic.

  Ceredon spun around and gazed in horror at the Black Spire. It was black no more, its surface a swirling cavalcade of dark colors that covered the surface like water over a stone. The stone rippled, and then a slender human figure emerged, dressed in a blood-splattered white robe. He walked unevenly at first, but slowly gained his balance as he climbed to the top of the wrecked dais. Ceredon and Boris were still standing beside the wagon Ceredon had been tied to, toward the rear of scene of battle, but even though he was a hundred yards away from the dais, Ceredon knew who the being was. Darakken laughed once more and threw back his hood, and Ceredon could hear no trace of humanity in the demon’s tone. He watched as Darakken hefted a large bag from the wreckage, reached inside, and lifted out a giant tome, the same book that the beast had shown him the night he’d murdered Ceredon’s father, the very same book that Boris had given to Darakken.

  “Oh, shit,” said Boris.

  Ceredon picked up a discarded khandar and began to stalk toward the beast, slowly, cautiously. Behind him, Boris stood frozen.

  The demon in its faltering human shell knelt on the pile of debris, the swirling light from the Spire making it seem like a wraith made flesh. The side of its face the giant had pulverized knitted back together, the jaw snapped back into place. It flexed its mouth, eyes burning with such brightness that it seemed to blot out the glow coming from the hunk of black stone behind him. Those eyes bore into Ceredon, a wicked smile coming over the demon’s maw.

  “The feast has begun,” Darakken said.

  Ceredon took another step forward, his insides burning with both anger and terror. Finally he’d had enough; he bellowed and began to sprint, khandar held above his head. The demon glanced up at him and raised its hand, and Ceredon was hurled backward as if struck by a boulder. He hit the ground hard and rolled, his momentum stopped by a mound of dead elves. His side ached, and Ceredon got up on his elbows, staring once more toward the remains of the dais. His thoughts were a muddle of confusion, and his vision shook.

  “There is no interrupting the feast,” Darakken said, scowling. The demon then placed the book down and whispered incoherent words of magic. The tome flopped open, its pages rifling all on their own until they fell still. The demon’s gaze remained fixed on Ceredon, its rotten-toothed grin growing all the wider. It then lowered its glowing gaze to the book.

  “ ‘In order to create worlds of their own, the gods require self-sacrifice,’ ” the creature read, its voice like a bear trying to mimic speech. “ ‘Celestia placed a piece of her essence into the heavens, forming the heart of Dezrel. The world spun around that piece of the goddess, taking shape, growing outward, giving birth to the land, the mountains, the oceans, the rivers, the trees. Yet when the eon passed, that piece remained. Small, slender, it is most sacred.’ ” Darakken lifted his glowing eyes to Ceredon and Boris. “So wrote the elves of ancient times; so wrote the man who penned this very tome.”

  Ceredon struggled to his feet, his fingers finding the dropped khandar and lifting it once more. He looked to the side, searching for Boris, but the human was nowhere to be found.

  “Coward,” Ceredon whispered. “What have you done?”

  “He has given me a chance at new life!” the beast laughed. “The Black Spire is a piece of Celestia herself. Within that crystal lie the secrets of the universe, a gateway to realms long forgotten, a portal into the very heart of creation.” The demon pounded a withered fist against its human chest. “Within lies the power to recreate the truest beauty that ever roamed this land, a beauty created by the great Kaurthulos himself!”

  Ceredon took a deep breath and gritted his teeth. He then took off at a run once more, careening toward the kneeling creature.

  Darakken watched him approach, eager. The thing looked like a child given a present, barely able to contain himself before opening it. The distance shrinking, it began reading from the book once more.

  “ ‘Antidrok lakkath!’ With the blood of the children of the goddess that banished me, I shall be reborn!”

  The beast continued to chant, its words becoming more and more desperate. Ceredon reached the edge of the smashed dais, let out a guttural cry, and leapt over the debris. He jammed the khandar into Darakken’s chest. The beast threw its head back, its mouth opening wide, and a spiraling tube of shadow erupted from its maw with such force that Ceredon was thrown backward. He landed hard atop the corpse of an elf, knocking the wind from his lungs.

  He rolled off the corpse and onto his hands and knees, looking on as the body of Clovis Crestwell deflated and then collapsed as if there were nothing left within it to keep its form. The living shadow that had been trapped within it writhed and billowed in the night sky, forming a giant cloud above the thrumming Black Spire.

  So huge, Ceredon thought. How did that frail body ever contain it?

  A primal scream seemed to emanate from the very air. The light from the Spire was bright, so bright it hurt to look; yet despite the pain, Ceredon watched as the living cloud stabbed into the pulsating rock. The Spire began to shake, fissures forming along its surface like cracks in thin ice. The corpse of the elf beside Ceredon quivered, as if something inside were trying to escape. Ceredon backed away from it on his hands and knees, watching in horror as the corpse’s eyes exploded. Thick, coagulated blood seeped from its every orifice, flowing along the sand in thin streams.

  Ceredon struggled to his feet, panic making it difficult to think. All around him the lifeless bodies of Dezren and Quellan elves performed the same perverted dance as the first, their blood spewing from their bodies until the combined streams became a great river flowing in the direction of the Black Spire. The thirteen human soldiers left bound by Bardiya’s men writhed against their chains, scre
aming in agony as their blood burst from their eyes, mouths, and nostrils. Only instead of it joining the flowing river, it flew backward, as if the Black Spire deemed it unworthy.

  The wreckage of the dais collapsed further as the river of elven blood surged over it. The dark fluid pooled around the base of the Spire, and the tall, pulsing formation of dark crystal began to drink it in. Its glow became darker and yet more forceful. The book Darakken had read from lifted into the air, rotating on an invisible axis, itself bathed in a strange light. A deep rumbling shook the ground.

  Ceredon started running as the corpses themselves rolled toward the pulsating obelisk. He dared not turn around, not when he heard the sickening crack of bones being pulverized, nor the rip of flesh and muscle torn asunder. He kept his eyes on his goal, the tall dune that led west toward the very edge of Ker. Boris Marchant’s words to him the first night he visited him repeated over and over in his head.

  “Because after Darakken destroys Ker, he’ll turn his back on his promise to your people. He will fulfill the purpose he was created for: devouring elves. Stonewood will come next, then Dezerea, then Quellassar.”

  Ceredon ran until the whole of him burned as he crossed the treacherous, shifting sand underfoot. When he reached the top of the dune, he collapsed, panting, and looked up to see a whitened cliff face before him, radiant in the moonlight. He caught the flash of feline eyes hidden within the softly blowing grasses at the base of the cliff. Sandcats. He clenched his teeth, ready for them to chase a helpless meal, but they did not. They remained where they were, partially concealed by the grass.

  Hiding from the most dangerous of all predators.

  A low, hornlike bellow sounded. Dread gripping him, Ceredon stood and faced the Black Spire. With distance it looked almost appealing: a fountain of swirling colors pulsed out of it like those in the sky over Mount Hailen during the winter northern lights. That appeal died the moment he spied the monstrous blob of writhing gray flesh, made from the remains of his people, in front of the Spire. Hoofed feet sprouted from the rear of the heap, and clawed, pawlike appendages from the front. A spiked tail grew like a snake wiggling from its leathery egg. The gray flesh took on a bumpy texture, and though Ceredon was too far away to know for sure, it seemed like scales slowly covered its hide. A backbone formed, rippling as it writhed, and pointed spines grew from each bulging vertebra. Last came the bulbous head, the snout growing outward, stretching to each side as a horrific face took form: wide-set black eyes, huge slotted nostrils, a hinged jaw. The still-forming thing threw its head back, opening its maw to silently scream. Teeth poked through the pink flesh inside its mouth, and a monstrous pair of tusks popped out from either side of its maw, creaking as they grew ever outward, not stopping until they extended far beyond its triangular, fleshy nose.