Blood Of Gods (Book 3)

by David Dalglish

  “Howard is a good man,” said a powerful voice from behind him. “Only I fear he wrestles a darkness within him.”

  Ahaesarus turned around. Ashhur stood there, his long golden hair fluttering in the cold breeze. Brown blood and sticky yellow fluid tarnished his white robes, staining the image of the mountain on his chest.

  “Then he is no different from all others who walk this land,” Ahaesarus said. He pointed at the corpses. “Even you, your Grace.”

  His words sounded harsher than he meant, but before he could apologize, Ashhur sadly shook his head.

  “I fear you are right, my friend. My children think our enemies evil men, but the works of evil men are cracked and small and easily seen. It is when a good man succumbs that the earth truly trembles.”

  Ahaesarus frowned.

  “My lord . . . what is wrong? Has something happened?”

  Ashhur ran a hand through his golden hair. “Bardiya has been broken. His soul cries out to me in anguish, in hatred, in self-loathing.”

  “What happened?”

  “I know only that he has taken life.”

  Ahaesarus shook his head, confused. “But what does that matter? We have all taken lives here, even you, your Grace. Why should the son of Gorgoros be any different?”

  “Because he was different,” the god said. “Of all men in this world, he stood the tallest, and now he has fallen. I can sense his fury, his confusion. It may lead him to greatness, or it may consume him completely, leaving me nothing of the beloved child whose father I once lifted from the dust. Tragedy or triumph; is that not what all great risks leave us with in the end?”

  His god fell silent, an aura of melancholy hovering over him. Ahaesarus looked to the rows and rows of corpses, knew he could stand the uncertainty no longer.

  “Why are they here?” he finally asked. “This is wrong, all of it wrong, I sense it in my bones. What is it you plan?”

  Ashhur met his eye, and in the depths of the god’s stare, Ahaesarus realized there was an ocean of knowledge of which he knew nothing, and a debate fearful in its ferocity.

  “My path is set,” Ashhur said, his face darkening. “Do you ask for your own information or in hopes of dissuading me should the path be one that frightens you?”

  The Warden felt so small, so humiliated. He lowered his gaze, wondering what had happened to the being of justice and grace that had saved him and his people.

  “Forgive me. What are your orders?”

  Ashhur turned to face Manse DuTaureau, and Ahaesarus saw Azariah was hurrying down the hill toward them.

  “Prepare our soldiers,” Ashhur said. “I sense my brother’s fury. It should not be long now.”

  Not an hour after that, the final onslaught on Mordeina began.

  CHAPTER

  24

  Where is it?” Nessa hissed. Her red hair danced around her head like snakes. “Tell me where it is.”

  “I don’t know!” Patrick shouted back at her. “You’re not real! Leave me alone!”

  The wraith pressed forward, pus dripping from her eyes, her rotting teeth gnashing together. Patrick turned, but there was nowhere to go. He was surrounded on three sides by black cliffs that rose high into the heavens above him, cliffs whose surface seemed soft and malleable, expanding and contracting as if the very stone were alive. He backed up against one of the walls, and a stream of stinking fluid poured over his shoulder.

  “Get away from me!” he screamed.

  “You would forsake me?” Nessa asked. “You never loved me. Look at what you have created, you with your malformed body and black heart.”

  Patrick lashed out, his fingernails digging into her flesh. The skin tore away with ease, exposing the white of her skull. Maggots crawled over his fingers. With a primal howl, the wraith shoved him backward. Patrick’s feet tangled in the muck, and he toppled over. Nessa landed atop him, pinning him, vomiting putrid slime all over his face.

  “Stop! Please stop!”

  “The second gate,” the vile image of his sister asked. “No walls have but one door. There must be another. Tell me where it is, dear brother, and I’ll leave you be. Tell me where . . . ”

  Something heavy struck him in the cheek.

  “DuTaureau, snap out of it, dammit!”

  Patrick blinked, and it wasn’t the wraith he was seeing, but Preston Ender. He glanced around. He sat on his bedroll in the long shack that had recently been built in their camp next to the Birch Forest. Sweat beaded up on his brow, and the whole of him was shaking. Preston knelt before him, hands on his shoulders. Behind the older man, the rest of the Turncloaks looked on with tired yet concerned eyes.

  “Patrick, how do I look to you?” Preston asked him. “Am I myself or someone else?”

  “You’re you,” Patrick said, shaking. “Ugly as sin, but you.”

  “Good.”

  “Was I asleep this time?”

  The man ground his teeth together and grimaced. “Not exactly. Tell me . . . what do you remember before your delusion?”

  Patrick breathed deeply, trying to gather his thoughts, but nothing would come to him. All he saw was Nessa’s decaying flesh; all he heard was her voice, her pointed questions . . .

  “Nothing,” he said. “Last I remember, you were helping me into the shack after I collapsed.”

  “That was two days ago,” said Preston. “You’ve been in here ever since.”

  “I have?”

  Preston nodded. “You were rife with fever. Ryann and Joff took turns wetting you down.”

  “I thought you said I wasn’t sleeping.”

  “You weren’t. You awoke after we returned from supping with the others. You seemed in good spirits. You told us about the time you took your sister to the delta and ran across the bandits attacking Crian Crestwell’s wagon, the day he handed you your sword.”

  “I don’t remember any of that,” Patrick said in disgust. “What happened after?”

  “You just . . . drifted away. Began mumbling, but your eyes were open. An hour ago you started thrashing, and I tried to restrain you, but you shoved me off. Then you started asking me nonsense about hidden gates. What is it that you remember?”

  Patrick frowned, straining his memory. To have been out for so long, surely he’d dreamed many dreams, but it had gone by so quickly.

  “I was being chased,” he said. “By Nessa’s spirit again. She asked me about a hidden gate.” He looked at Preston gravely. “This isn’t random, Preston. This isn’t my subconscious or guilt haunting me.”

  “No?”

  He shook his head vehemently, rapping his forehead with his knuckles. “Something is . . . in here, damn it. Something, someone, I don’t know who or how, but Ahaesarus was wrong, he had to have been wrong . . . ”

  Little Flick stepped forward. “Mister Patrick? Are you gonna be all right?”

  “Shut it, you halfwit,” snapped his brother Big Flick. He yanked the large youth backward. “Leave the man be!”

  “Enough, both of you!” Preston roared before turning back to Patrick. “These delusions have gone on for weeks. You need to speak with Ashhur. I’ll go to him if you won’t.”

  “Um,” said Tristan with a frown, “I think that might not be possible. The god organized some big deal for tonight. Something about the bodies in the nook. He’ll be busy.”

  “Then we interrupt him,” snapped Preston. “This is more important than corpses, I’d say.”

  Patrick watched the conversation, his mind wavering once more. “We might not have to. I know of . . . of someone . . . who might . . . be of . . . Az . . . Az will . . . go away!”

  Nessa stepped out from behind Preston, grinning her skeletal grin. Preston grinned along with her. Patrick’s vision began to swim. Not real, not real! Get out of my head! But his brain reacted on its instinctual fear. His fist lashed out, catching Preston square in the face. The man fell backward, clutching at his nose as blood seeped between his fingers. Patrick rolled to the side, avoiding his siste
r’s ghost when she lunged for him. His fingers found Winterbone’s handle, the sword resting beside his bedroll. He yanked the blade from its sheath, shrieking as if a demon infested his soul. Stop it, stop it! his mind screamed, but he couldn’t control his actions. It felt like he was being compressed, driven into himself by some potent outer force. His vision slowly darkened.

  At last! an ethereal voice proclaimed inside his skull.

  He felt his body turn, and he sensed words on his lips. It’s all right, his mouth was about to say, words his brain didn’t believe, but the Turncloaks were on him before he could make a sound. They shoved him to the ground while he thrashed, Patrick cuffing Preston’s son Ragnar on the side of the head and kicking Joff Goldenrod in the groin. In payment for that, Big Flick clouted his misshapen jaw.

  Stars filled his vision, and Patrick felt his eyes roll into the back of his head.

  There was murmuring above him, but he could see nothing but blackness. Inside that blackness lurked Nessa. He clutched Winterbone tightly to his chest, like a lifeline. Why was he holding it so tightly? He bit down hard on his tongue, trying to force himself back to reality. It worked, at least a little. He chanced opening his eyelids just a tad and saw Preston kneeling opposite him, blood trickling over his lips and drenching his gray beard. Patrick rose up on his elbows. Every inch of him felt tight yet dulled, as if he were a guest in his own body. I know you’re in there, you bastard, he told the invader in his head. No one answered, but he felt the presence nonetheless. It was wary now. Patrick sat up with a grunt, his world wavering. It took a great effort to stand. His knees felt stiff, unresponsive. It took an even greater effort to lurch toward the wall and snatch Winterbone’s sheath. He shoved the sword inside, shaking all the while, and held the scabbard out to Little Flick. The large young soldier hesitated for a moment, then took it from him before handing the blade to Preston.

  The whole time, the other Turncloaks watched him in silence.

  “What do we do?” Joffrey finally asked.

  “Take me to Azariah,” Patrick said, meeting Preston’s worried gaze. “Fucking carry me if you have to.”

  Everything was a daze as Patrick’s friends guided him through the cold night. It was everything he could do to stay upright on his horse, Big and Little Flick riding on either side of him in case he fell over.

  There was pressure behind his eyes, and he squeezed them shut. You won’t see, he told the invader in his head. I won’t let you. Eventually the pressure relented, and he allowed himself to look at his surroundings once more. Even the darkness seemed much too dark, and he caught a flash of red in the distance, dashing through the black.

  Not this time. Not . . . this . . . time.

  Preston led the group up Manse DuTaureau’s high hill, and the Flicks helped Patrick out of the saddle once they reached the top. The two large boys supported him on either side, nearly carrying him through the front doors after Preston opened them. The rest of the Turncloaks followed behind them in silence. Patrick could almost feel their concern.

  “Azariah!” Preston bellowed as they walked through the manse. The old soldier had Winterbone balanced across his arms, and Patrick eyed the sword greedily. “Azariah, come quickly! You’re needed!”

  Patrick heard a few people yelp from somewhere deep in the manse, obviously surprised by the sudden intrusion at such a late hour. Patrick hoped his other sisters had the good sense to stay in their rooms. In no way did he want them to see him in such a state.

  Finally, the short Warden appeared as they approached the makeshift throne room at the far end of the manse. Azariah stood watching them, a look of bemusement on his face, the white robes that he now always wore draped around him. Patrick eyed him weakly, feeling drunk, his head bobbing from side to side.

  “What happened?” Azariah asked.

  “I . . . we’re not sure,” said Preston. “Patrick wants you to look him over.”

  Azariah leaned over Patrick, hesitated a moment, and then stepped back, eyes widening. “Quickly, bring him inside.”

  The Flicks lugged him through the doors and set him down on the slab upon which Ashhur had once been laid. The Turncloaks stepped back as Azariah went to work, checking Patrick’s pulse, feeling his neck. The Warden’s lips twisted into a grimace. Patrick felt a wave of hatred rising up in him, followed by a desperate desire to kill Azariah where he stood.

  “Flicks,” he murmured. “You might want to hold me down . . . ”

  The next time Azariah went to touch him, Patrick’s fist flung for his face. Thankfully for the Warden’s sake, the two big boys were faster.

  “He’s feverish,” Azariah said, seemingly nonplussed by the outburst. “How long has he been like this?”

  “Weeks,” said Preston. “Maybe as long as two months. He’s not certain.”

  “Sickness?”

  Patrick vehemently shook his head, which made Azariah’s mouth tighten.

  “He’s been seeing his dead sister,” Preston said. “Visions, nightmares—things like that. It’s strange because . . . he said he thinks someone’s in there with him. Is that possible? Ahaesarus looked him over a couple weeks ago but saw nothing.”

  Azariah gazed down at Patrick. “And you thought I could see what he could not?”

  Patrick nodded fervidly. The Warden allowed himself a smile.

  “I suppose I should feel proud of your confidence,” he said touching him. This time when the revulsion came, Patrick fought it down without need of the Flicks. “And something is awry, I’m certain of it. It’s subtle, though. I’m not surprised Ahaesarus failed to notice it, especially if you weren’t as bad then.”

  “What is it?” Ryann asked. “What do you see?”

  Azariah’s eyes were closed as he spoke.

  “It’s like smoke coming from his eyes,” the Warden said. “Little tendrils of it, so faint . . . but not connected to anyone afar. No curse, no ancient wards, just tendrils . . . connected to . . . ”

  Suddenly every single warning instinct in Patrick flared. He surged to his feet, flooded with strength he never knew he had. Both Flicks hurled themselves against him, each holding an arm, and even then it was not enough to keep Patrick from ramming his head into Azariah’s chest. As the Warden stumbled back, more men grabbed hold of Patrick, slamming him down onto the slab. His every muscle tensed, Patrick struggled, screaming out mindlessly.

  Azariah whirled around, still clutching his chest. “Give me his sword!” he screamed. Without another word he leapt at Preston. The old soldier almost threw Patrick’s massive blade at the Warden. Azariah snatched up the scabbard and hastily threw it down on the slab beside Patrick.

  “A hammer!” the short Warden shouted. “Anything! Something hard and heavy! Now!”

  Ryann Matheson released Patrick’s arm to hand him the undersized maul the young soldier kept hitched to his belt. Azariah quickly grabbed it and lifted it above Winterbone’s handle. Patrick watched it all happen, and in his heart he knew—he knew what would happen.

  “Don’t!” he shrieked. “It’ll kill me, you bastard! It’ll kill me! ”

  Azariah brought down the maul. The dragonglass crystal adorning Winterbone’s handle shattered.

  A puff of smoke rose from the splintered crystal, and Patrick snapped back into himself. His hand recoiled, the strain in his muscles gone just like that. The fog in his mind lifted, and the dullness of his muscles faded away. For the first time in a very long while, he felt like himself. He glanced nervously to the side, searching for Nessa’s ghastly image, but she was nowhere to be found.

  “It’s gone,” he said, turning to the short Warden. “Praise Ashhur, it’s gone!”

  Azariah remained leaning over Patrick’s sword and the broken crystal, his expression one of pure dread. “Dragonglass is a powerful mineral. Within it is a bit of the fire that created it, and within that fire is the very power that made the dragons. Two large pieces of it could create a gateway of sorts, and it can be useful in communicating ove
r long distances. Also, if a piece is close by, it can be used to manipulate the mind of another.” Azariah let out a disgusted grumble. “I allowed an old friend of mine to experiment with it on me once.”

  “Let me guess,” said Patrick, sliding off the slab. “Would that friend be our beloved Jacob Eveningstar?”

  Azariah nodded. Patrick grunted, squeezing fingers into fists until his nails bit into his palms. His anger made his neck grow hot.

  “If Jacob or Velixar—or whoever—has been inside your head for some time, he has seen everything you have,” said Azariah. “He knows our weaknesses and our strengths. And if he knows, so does Karak.”

  “They don’t know everything,” said Patrick. “He kept asking about a hidden gate of some sort, but I never knew if one existed. Does it?”

  The short Warden leaned over and looked into his eyes once more, as if making sure Patrick was alone in his head. “There is a hidden postern gate,” he said. “The entrance is just outside the birch forest, veiled beneath a false floor covered with discarded branches. It was Ashhur’s last resort, a tunnel wide and tall enough to accommodate a whole fleet of carriages, if worst came to worst.”

  “Where does this tunnel end?” asked Preston.

  “It empties out into a rocky precipice three miles from here, by the river.”

  Patrick leaned forward, grinning. If felt good to do so again. “Perfect.”

  Azariah looked at him quizzically. “Perfect?”

  “Yes, perfect. Azariah, listen to me. I need you to go tell Ahaesarus what just transpired. Tell him that Karak likely knows everything about our defenses. And do it quickly. I have a feeling Karak won’t wait long to kill us once and for all.”

  “And what will you do?” asked the Warden.

  Patrick’s grin grew wider. “For the first time in months I feel like myself again—and not just that, Azariah; I feel pissed. I’m taking whoever will come with me through that secret tunnel. We’re going to loop around and attack the bastards from behind.”