The shifting of its body wound down as it fell to all fours. Ceredon imagined bones growing, muscle tissue knitting together, organs sprouting from the combined remnants of nearly six hundred dead elves. Despite his horror, he marveled at the size of the thing. It had to be thirty feet long, perhaps forty given its spiked tail, and it looked like a ghastly combination of a bull and one of the giant water lizards that once roamed the Rigon Delta, but with the tusks of a grayhorn. The book was nowhere to be seen.
Silence fell over the desert. Even the wind seemed to die, as if Celestia herself were holding her breath.
The Black Spire throbbed a few final times, and then a high-pitched scream discharged from within. All light combined into a blinding white, leaping from the obelisk and swallowing the newly made creature. Ceredon threw his arm over his eyes, unable to bear its brilliance. And then, with a deafening boom, the Black Spire exploded. In millions of bits, it flew into the air, soaring for miles and then falling like an ashen rain. As Ceredon looked on, tears in his eyes, the last of the light faded, and only a blackened hole in the sand remained of what had once been a part of his goddess.
Through the dimness Ceredon watched the creature suck in a long, labored breath. Its eyes, formerly filled with shadow, began to glow, bringing forth that same red resonance Darakken had possessed when it dwelled inside Clovis Crestwell. The beast shook its head, snot flying from its bull’s nose, and rose to its full height. Maw lifted to the heavens, it let out a booming roar that seemed to go on and on.
Ceredon fled west, one foot in front of the other, pushing his aching body to its limits. He didn’t know what he’d do, what he could do. But he had to gather himself, figure out a way to keep Aully and Kindren safe. He had to protect his people. As the terrifying roar continued, he realized it was not just a primal howl, but a single word, stretched out and mutated, full of terror, full of exaltation.
“REBORN!”
CHAPTER
23
The snow had stopped, and Mordeina was quiet for the first time in gods knew how long. No shouts from the army outside their walls, no barrage of heavy stones, no screams and shrieks of the frightened and dying.
Ahaesarus didn’t like it, not one bit.
The Master Warden pulled his heavy woolen cloak over his shoulders as he exited Manse DuTaureau. He gazed out at the calm night, taking in the eerie white world around him. From atop Manse’s high hill, he saw Ashhur standing at the crest of the wall. The god’s back was to him, white robe fluttering as he stared at the army that gathered across the valley. Ahaesarus lowered his eyes, reflecting on how the settlement he now called home looked so different. What had once been a rambling green land filled with rolling hills and small pockets of trees now closely resembled the village he had lived in his whole life, back on Algrahar, the same village that was decimated when the winged demons descended from the sky to lay waste to everything.
Ahaesarus shuddered.
He turned left and walked along the footpath circling the manse, his keen eyes observing. To the south there was the heavy gate cut into the inner wall, with seven-foot-tall stone barricades lining the road leading into the settlement. Murder row, Ashhur had called it. Much like the causeway between the two walls, should the enemy succeed in pushing through the portcullis, the tall barricades would hem them in on either side, and they would be helpless as Ashhur’s defenders hacked away at them from above.
Fifty yards behind the gate was the bunker his god had raised, a six-hundred-foot long crescent that ran from the far side of murder row to well past Celestia’s tree. The trench was shielded by solid rock on the side facing the walls; it opened on the other, allowing the defenders to hunker down inside and work on molding steel into weapons, or await their next shift atop the wall. Right now he saw the glow of a few fires inside the bunker as those still awake burned the midnight oil.
Farther east, in a slight vale, sat the remains of the storehouses where the winter provisions had once been held, along with the old well that had been Geris Felhorn’s prison. The rickety storehouses were long dismantled, the wood used to construct the many huts that had risen up all throughout Mordeina. There were over thirty of those twenty-foot-by-twenty-foot huts down there now, each crammed with three or more families. Even on the footpath high above, he could still be hear the soft cries of children.
Ahaesarus walked north around the manse. Mordeina’s frozen fields came into view, partly covered with snow and ice and partly muddy and dark, the result of Wardens painstakingly tilling the land with Ashhur’s assistance, the god using his magic to raise crops to feed his children. Those crops were stunted, pathetic, barely enough to feed two hundred men, never mind two hundred thousand. The earth was used up, its nutrients sapped over the long year, and too much of Ashhur’s energy was in use keeping the magical barrier around the walled settlement intact. It seemed even a god could not make something out of nothing.
Beyond the fields were the grazing grounds, where barely two hundred cattle, swine, goats, and sheep milled about, watched over by a small cluster of Wardens. Butted up against the grounds were the stables, where most of the fifteen score horses had settled in for the night. Ahaesarus sighed. When they’d first raised the walls around the settlement, there had been almost two thousand animals here, most owned by House DuTaureau, but also many others brought into the settlement by those seeking the protection of Mordeina’s walls. With the stores all but used up, and crops a near impossibility, it had come to only the meat the animals provided to sustain the masses. Nearly four hundred of them had been slaughtered over the last month alone, even newly born calves and kids. Not even heavy rationing would slow it down. People had to eat, after all, and Wardens too. At this rate, they would exhaust their food supplies in less than two weeks. As for the horses, some of them had begun to die off as well, no matter the healing touches the Wardens gave them. Horses belonged in the plains, running and breeding and free. To be locked within a confined space was against their nature. The only saving grace was that whenever a horse died, one cow was saved from slaughter for another day.
The Master Warden groaned, seeing the distant Birch Forest nestled into the northwest corner of the settlement and the camp that had sprung up around it. A sense of longing filled him, for these were the last trees in all of Mordeina; the maples, elms, chestnuts, oaks, and willows, whose wood was much sturdier than birch, had been cut down to help build shelters and weapons. Wood was so scarce now, such a valuable commodity, that it was prohibited from being used for fires. The people needed to use hay and dried blocks of dung instead, which created an ever-present pungent smell.
A few people moved within the camp, which now included four large, white-topped shacks that housed the majority of the two thousand who lived there. Ahaesarus sighed. Patrick was down there somewhere, probably twisting and writhing in his bed. Ever since the brave and disfigured DuTaureau had seemingly lost his mind, his presence had become scarce in the southern portion of the settlement, where Mordeina’s defense was being prepared. The Turncloaks kept a watchful eye on him, and they’d told Ahaesarus that the poor man was in a horrific state of mind after the death of his sister. Ahaesarus found that strange, as Patrick had learned of Nessa’s death months ago. Everyone processes grief in their own way. This is Patrick’s. He needs time to heal. Though truth be told, he wished the man would get on with that healing already. In his absence, Ahaesarus had taken on many of his duties, including his shift atop the wall at dusk. The combined efforts were rapidly eating away at him. He hadn’t slept more than two hours on any given night in over a week.
If I go on like this much longer, I will drop dead from exhaustion.
Beside the forest was the enormous camp of those who had accompanied Ashhur on his long journey from the Rigon River to Mordeina. The white landscape was dotted with many heavy tents and rude hovels, positioned in square grid patterns following Warden Leviticus’s design. This part of the settlement stretched out lengthwise for nearly
a full two miles, butting up against the wall and reaching all the way to a hundred feet below Manse DuTaureau’s high hill. By rough count, there were over a hundred and fifty thousand people residing in this quarter of the settlement, as Ahaesarus was always painfully aware due to the rancid odor of human waste constantly wafting from it.
Finally, Ahaesarus’s eyes fell on the settlement’s darkest segment, one that no one wished to acknowledge. Positioned thirty yards west of the inner gate and a hundred yards from the end of the populated area, this section was relatively small, cordoned off by a short stone wall that Preston Ender had ordered built. Within that cordoned space lay the corpses of all those who had died within Mordeina’s walls. By last count there were almost six thousand bodies in there, from the soldiers of Karak—those whose lives Patrick and the Drake spellcasters had ended in the causeway—to citizens of Paradise who had perished due to battle, disease, or boulders falling from the sky. Ahaesarus had demanded they be burned to prevent their stench and sickness from spreading, but Ashhur denied him.
“The dead will serve their purpose,” Ashhur had said, refusing to elaborate further.
Ahaesarus finished his revolution around the manse and found Howard Baedan standing in front of the building’s front stoop, with King Benjamin by his side, both bundled in furs. The youth appeared frazzled, gazing with trepidation out into the quiet night. The steward’s hand was firmly on the boy’s shoulder, and whenever the young king shivered, Howard squeezed and shot him a disapproving look.
“Stand tall,” the steward said. “Stand strong.”
“But it’s cold.”
“It’ll be colder when you’re dead,” Howard said. “You need to display strength, not whine like a child.”
“But there’s no one here to see me but you.”
“Does my opinion mean nothing to you?”
“Should it mean something to me, servant?”
Ahaesarus couldn’t believe the haughtiness in Benjamin’s voice, couldn’t believe the nerve of the child to speak to the Master Steward that way. Those were words that would have come from Isabel DuTaureau’s mouth, not from a plump youth prone to bouts of whimpering. Even though the matriarch of House DuTaureau had been confined to her quarters within the manse, her sway over the boy king remained.
“You would be wise to listen to him, boy,” Ahaesarus said, unable to keep his mouth shut. “You’ve experienced nothing of life, yet dismiss those with wisdom who seek to help you. Ashhur would not be pleased.”
The boy’s head snapped around, his eyes widening as he lifted them to Ahaesarus’s approaching form. Howard Baedan, on the other hand, seemed unsurprised. He chuckled under his breath and offered the Master Warden an appreciative nod.
“Has it begun?” Ahaesarus asked.
“It has,” said Howard, gesturing to the huts that rested where the storehouses once were.
Down below, people were exiting their crude shelters and trembling against the night’s cold. Three men worked their way around each chalet, alerting those inside that their grim duties were about to begin. He also spotted a group of Wardens, including Judarius, marching across the frozen land, heading for the darkened area of festering death. Confusion abounded among them; what Ashhur had ordered them to do this night was unusual to say the least.
“Did you get what you needed inside?” Howard asked.
“I did.” Reaching beneath his cloak, Ahaesarus removed a clay jar filled with a salve Azariah had made for him. “Smear it on your hands. It should protect you from any sickness you touch. A little bit beneath your nose will also help with the odor.”
Howard cocked his head. “You wish me to join you?”
“Of course. We all must do our part,” Ahaesarus said, and he pointedly stared at King Benjamin when he spoke.
Howard turned to Benjamin. “Go to bed, boy.” And Benjamin did, casting a nervous glance in Ahaesarus’s direction on his way out. Once he was gone, Howard relaxed.
“I’m tired of playing nursemaid to such a brat,” he said. “Thank you for the invite. Getting my hands dirty will alleviate my frustrations.”
“I thought you enjoyed being his mentor now that Isabel is no longer . . . a viable option.”
To that, Howard let out a humorless laugh. “Isabel had her claws in him for over a year. Making the boy unlearn what she taught him will take time and energy, and I doubt I will have enough of either before entering my grave.”
Hearing Howard speak so surprised Ahaesarus to no end. The man had been the house steward for more than twenty years. He assumed if any would be on her side, it would be Howard.
“Sir Howard, what of Isabel?” he asked, hoping to draw more out of the man. “I have not seen her since Ashhur banished her to her room.”
He shrugged. “Who cares? The bitch and her husband can rot in their bed, for all I care.” His gaze shifted up, staring into Ahaesarus’s eyes. “And please, never call me ‘Sir.’ I loathe that title.”
Ahaesarus was taken aback. “I thought it was what you wished to be called?”
Again Howard laughed. “Absolutely not. That was Isabel’s doing. She was the one obsessed with the Wardens’ stories of knights and honor and centuries of glory. I asked her once if we should perhaps take up jousting, for entertainment. In my youth, my friends and I would pretend to be the knights from those stories.” His lips bent into a frown. “When she heard that, she laughed. ‘Does Howard think he’s a knight?’ she asked. I’m a steward, as my father was before me. A servant in her eyes, and obviously those of our brat king as well. Servants aren’t warriors. She made sure to remind me of that daily.”
Ahaesarus placed his hand on the man’s arm. “I am sorry, Howard. I never knew.”
“You never asked,” Howard said, shrugging off the hand.
The Master Warden and Howard descended the high hill, falling in behind the ninety-six men who had been awakened. By the time they arrived at the corpse pit, Judarius and his fellow Wardens had removed the long boards that formed a ramp leading up to the top. Within, bodies were stacked atop bodies, some fully intact, some missing an arm, a leg, even a head. The men lined up as Ahaesarus placed a glob of Azariah’s salve in each of their hands. Their collective misting breath formed a cloud above them.
“Why are we doing this?” asked one of the men.
“Because Ashhur requested it of us,” Ahaesarus replied.
“But why?”
“Do not question, just do,” the Master Warden said. He turned to Judarius, nodded. “Break open the wall.”
Judarius lifted a great maul he’d had custom built over the past month, solid wood with an enormous steel head. Walking over to a wall of the pit, he braced himself, swung, and smashed it in, exposing the piles of the dead. Another swing and the hole grew, granting them a wider entrance. The men slowly surged forward, clearing out the smaller pieces of rock, unblocking their path, and then they began the work Ashhur requested.
In teams of two, they wrestled bodies from the pile and carted them to the wide empty area in front of the bunker. The corpses were stiff, the bloat all but gone, and their flesh felt slick. Ahaesarus was beyond thankful for the cold, for it had kept the bodies from reaching a far more grotesque state of decay. Removing them from the carts, the men placed them on their backs, shoulder to shoulder in the snow. Ahaesarus worked with Howard, and was impressed by the man’s resolve. He would always look at the face of the man or woman they carried, offering a softly worded prayer before lifting the legs while Ahaesarus took the arms. Never once did he grow green from disgust, nor did he panic or dump the contents of his stomach on the ground, as many of the others did. He remained stalwart and tough, a pillar of strength among much weaker men. Though there was silence between them as they worked, the Master Warden’s opinion of Howard grew.
For five hours they toiled, hauling corpse after corpse out of the pen and placing them in three rows in front of the protective bunker. During the last hour Ashhur descended the wall, joining
in with his children, lugging eight cadavers at a time. The god remained quiet, a downtrodden look on his face, which greatly concerned Ahaesarus.
They finished as the sun was climbing the eastern horizon, sending shoots of yellow and crimson above the walls. Howard’s shoulders were slumped, though his eyes were still alive with determination. Judarius led the Wardens to the low wall surrounding the area where the corpses had previously resided, while the rest of the workers began trudging back to their families, with heads hanging. It was only at Ahaesarus’s prodding that Howard joined them.
“Get some rest.”
Howard sighed. “I will. And Master Warden . . . you have my thanks.”
“And you mine.”
Before he could leave, Ahaesarus reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder, holding him still.
“Howard . . . do not lose hope, and do not diminish your own worth. With you at the king’s side, there is still a chance he could grow to be as fine a man as you are. Our kingdom would be blessed by such a fate.”
The Master Steward hesitated, and then he smiled.
“Blessed indeed,” he said, and then began the tiresome climb up the icy hill to Manse DuTaureau. Ahaesarus felt as tired as Howard looked, but he knew he should join his fellow Wardens in dismantling the rest of the low wall.
Blood Of Gods (Book 3) Page 28