Preston grinned, and it was obvious to Patrick whom his first volunteer would be.
“This is reckless,” Azariah insisted. “Such desperation is suicide.”
“Might very well be,” Patrick replied, rage churning within him. “But I’m tired of waiting here to die, and I want my shot at revenge. Your old friend has been tormenting me for weeks now, using my own sister against me. It’s about time I give him a taste of his own medicine. He wants to know everything I know, see everything I see? So fucking be it. I’ll cut off his damn head and carry it around wherever I go, no dragonglass required.”
When the dragonglass shattered, severing the link, Velixar leapt back into himself, panting. He shook his head to clear the mist, then threw his chin toward the sky and screamed. The canvas walls of his pavilion billowed with the force of his rage. The red glow of his eyes dwindled.
So close! He’d broken the misshapen man, had finally been able to step inside his mind and take control, just as the Beast of a Thousand Faces had done to so many elves a thousand years before. Patrick’s erratic behavior would have been at an end, granting Velixar an assassin on the inside. Patrick was far stronger, resisting far longer than the mutated wretch had any right to, and in the end it failed. Dragged before Azariah, it was only a matter of time before the Warden discovered the dragonglass crystal and destroyed it. Velixar felt the waste of too much precious time, spending all these weeks torturing Patrick, manipulating him, gaining only a few modest scraps of information for his efforts.
If there was one thing Velixar loathed, it was wasting his time.
He stood with a huff and stormed out of his pavilion into the cold night air. Pulling his robe about himself, he shivered once before forcing his body to be still. There were soldiers standing nearby, guarding against deserters, and he was High Prophet of Karak, the swallower of demons. The cold should hold no sway over one with such power. He could not show weakness before them.
Velixar gazed at Karak’s pavilion looming over the camping army three hundred feet away. A rare fire burned within, making its walls glow softly. He heard Karak let out a groan. Velixar started toward his chosen god’s dwelling, hastening his steps. Something felt wrong. Something felt very wrong. By the time he’d crossed half the distance, he’d broken out into a run.
He burst through the pavilion flap to find Karak sitting in front of the raging fire, his knees drawn up. The deity held his head in his hands. The groaning Velixar had heard was actually a growl that sounded eerily similar to that of the Final Judges when offering a sinner their special form of justice.
“My Lord?” he asked as he knelt on the other side of the fire.
Karak’s eyes rose to meet his, bearing sorrow, frustration, and the exhaustion of eternity. As they stared, Karak’s troubles infused his every fiber. Such a reaction. Few things could spark it, and in his gut, Velixar had a suspicion . . .
“The demon,” Velixar said. “What has he done?”
Karak’s jaw tightened.
“Darakken has regained its old form, in the flesh.”
Just as he’d thought, then. Troublesome, especially if Karak placed the blame on his head. Had he not promised to control the beast? Was it not his journal that contained the required spell to bring back the demon’s mortal form?
Speaking of which . . .
“Is my journal with him still?” he asked. There were many other secrets within, secrets he disliked the idea of the ancient demon reading.
Karak shook his head. “The Darakken will carry your book always, High Prophet. That book now lies within the heart of the creature it helped bring about. Just like the Black Spire, it cannot be seen again.”
“What happened to the Spire?” asked Velixar.
“In the aftermath of Darakken’s creation, the Black Spire was exhausted of its magic and shattered.”
Velixar looked down. His journal was gone, and the Spire as well.
“That is . . . unfortunate.”
“All is not lost,” Karak said. “You have the knowledge of ages within you, High Prophet. You can pen your journal anew, if that is what you wish to do. As for the Black Spire, its loss is fortuitous. It was the Spire that created the desert at the heart of Ker, its power draining all life from the earth surrounding it. With it gone, the rains will soon come, as will grass and trees. Vibrancy will emerge where once there was desolation. Those lands will be truly hospitable once more.”
“Lands that will soon be yours,” Velixar said, realizing why Karak considered it a boon. Still, the loss stung. Velixar had hoped to prod the secrets from the crystal one day.
“Now that Darakken is whole once more,” Velixar asked, each word tentative, “will it be joining us?”
“No,” said Karak. He slid his legs beneath him and sat up straight, the reds and yellows from the fire casting flickering shadows across his face. “As if from a dream, I remember when we were whole and gave life to that . . . thing. It is nothing but hunger and desire, my prophet. It will not come to us. Without Clovis to help guide it, the thought will never even enter its head. It was formed for one purpose, and that purpose will take it to the Stonewood Forest.”
“To slaughter the elves.”
Karak nodded.
“Forgive me, my Lord,” said Velixar, crossing his arms over his chest and bowing his head in supplication. “In my pride I thought to control it, to use it as a tool. Whatever consequences such failure deserves, I accept them humbly.”
“You were a fool to think your power sufficient,” Karak said, and his words burned into Velixar’s chest. “But at least you now understand your foolishness. As for the ancient demon . . . for now it will spread chaos, and for once, I feel that chaos is exactly what we need.”
That sounded like blasphemy to Velixar, but how could words of blasphemy come from the lips of a god?
“I don’t understand,” he said, figuring that a safe enough response.
“Despite all the horrors Celestia has allowed to fall upon her children, she still loves them. They are her creations, her greatest achievement.” Karak’s gaze turned distant, and he smiled. “Her focus will be drawn to the elves and their struggles. If she is prompted to intervene again, it will be to defend them, not Ashhur.”
“Or it will cause her to loathe this war all the more,” Velixar dared suggest.
Karak slowly shook his head.
“If she seeks to end it, then let her end it. I will not let fear of her guide my actions. All around us, this entire world is filled with chaos, but within the chaos I am learning to see threads of order. We can cling to this still, find opportunity even in the worst of hardships. This is one such opportunity, my friend, and one we must take advantage of immediately.”
Velixar stood, his entire body shaking with anticipation. “What do we do now?”
“Everything has aligned, the threads coming together, with Darakken’s creation the final knot. We have an army that will soon go hungry, yet despite our lack of resources, they have worked diligently. Though the magical barrier my brother raised still stands, I now have thirty-six towers and twenty-nine catapults, along with as many ladders and rams as we could possibly utilize. The time to attack is now, my prophet. Once inside Mordeina’s walls, that barrier will be useless. Once inside those walls, the might of the demon you swallowed will at last be put to the test.”
Velixar grinned. “I look forward to that, my Lord.”
“Our strike will be quick and deadly. Before the sun rises, I want all divisions mobilized. Inform the Lord Commander of everything you have learned from the mutant’s mind, of all defensive positions and resources my brother has at his disposal.”
There it was, the mention of the malformed DuTaureau. Velixar opened his mouth to admit yet another failure to his chosen god, but Karak continued.
“This will be our day in the sun,” said the deity. “This is the day that will usher forth a united Dezrel. Do not dwell on your failures or what you feel was lost. When Ashhur f
alls, when his people bear witness to my might and bend their knees, all shall be forgotten. Now go forth and ready the soldiers for what lies ahead.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
The sky above him was dark as Velixar withdrew from the tent, the type of deepened black that comes just before sunrise. He walked a straight line through the snow, the walled settlement of Mordeina a faint outline in the distance. No longer did those walls seem unassailable. Karak’s approval had steeled him, had let him see that the outcome of the coming battle had already been written. They would storm those walls, and they would conquer the people within. For Karak was the god with vision—the deity willing to risk everything to bring about that vision—whereas Ashhur was a sentimental fool. It was that timidity, that naïve trust in feeble, foolish humankind that had led Velixar to choose the god of the east. Karak was the stronger. Strength led to destruction and chaos, and from destruction and chaos would emerge creation and true order. Might was visceral, real; compassion was a belief and nothing more.
Heart soaring, Velixar marched through the sprawling camp, seeking out the Lord Commander. The day of reckoning was at hand.
CHAPTER
25
The attack began as the sun crept above the horizon.
It started with boulders smashing against Mordeina’s walls from all sides, pounding and pulverizing the thick stone. Ahaesarus raced along the western wall, shouting out orders, the warning Azariah had given him coming too late, the assault beginning too quickly for him to get all of his charges to safety. Though the walls remained standing, cracks soon formed. Just like the many times before, many of the heavy boulders soared over the walls as well, only this time, just as Azariah had said, they were not flung blindly. Each falling chunk of rock landed much too close to the defensive formations Ahaesarus had formed. The defenders scattered, Warden and human alike. The huts where weapons were hammered out and stored were pulverized. Boulders fell onto the fields in the north of the settlement, crushing the weak crops; smashed into their horse stables; dropped onto their dwindling livestock. Animals fled the destruction of their habitats, horses, cattle, pigs, and goats tramping through the settlement to avoid the death raining from above. Snow and mist filled the air. The people were thrown into a panic. All was chaos.
With one final boom, an eerie calm descended on the settlement. It had been by far the most extensive attack yet, with what seemed like five hundred boulders. When it ceased, Ahaesarus rushed up the stairs to the top of the wall, sprinting along the ramparts with Judarius by his side as they examined the damage. A great many cracks lined the interior of the outer wall, a few of them large enough to fit a man or even three through, but those would be easily defended. Karak, you have misjudged your brother once more, Ahaesarus thought with a smile. He then crossed the plank to the outer wall itself, gazing out at the forest that lay a mere quarter mile away, and his heart froze in his chest.
Skeletal branches snapped as giant wooden towers emerged from the frozen, dead forest. Soldiers of Karak, bundled in furs and grouped in clusters of fifty, shouted as they shoved their wheeled towers through the packed snow toward the wall. The five regiments he saw were evenly spaced, with at least three thousand feet between them. The archers among the soldiers raised their bows, pulled back the strings, and loosed their arrows. Ahaesarus ducked behind a merlon, eyes wide. The bombardment had been a brutal distraction, forcing those inside to cower while the soldiers moved their towers into position and approached the walls. Karak had spread out his force, presumably coming at them from all sides. So far as Ahaesarus could guess, the tall towers would be close enough to mount an assault in a half hour at most. Given the size of the settlement, he had no opportunity to fully organize their defenders, most of whom were positioned by the southern portcullis. By the time he gathered the archers and climbed back to the top of the wall, the soldiers would already be here, and given how much space was between them, the pitiful two hundred archers would be less than useless.
“Damn it,” he muttered.
“Ahaesarus!” shouted Judarius. “We need orders!”
The Master Warden gazed over at his compatriot and saw anger boiling over in his green-gold eyes. Judarius was breathing heavily, his elegant hand held firm over the giant maul fastened to his belt. For a moment he thought Judarius would leap over the wall, the sixty-foot fall be damned, and charge the approaching clusters himself, but instead his expression stiffened. Arrows continued to fly over their heads. Down below, the people of Mordeina, their wards, were screaming and running for cover.
“What is your command, Master Warden?” asked Judarius, and strangely enough, he seemed suddenly calm. “Do I fetch the archers?”
Ahaesarus tapped his fingers on the parapet’s compacted stone. “How many towers did Leviticus report at last count?” he asked.
“Over thirty.”
Ahaesarus chanced another look around the merlon and saw the wobbling tower growing ever closer.
“There is no time for archers,” Ahaesarus said. “No time for anything but melee weapons and pikes. Judarius, go down to the people. Find the bravest men and make them lead. Have them gather as many as they can and bring whatever they have at their disposal—old tent posts, rocks, buckets of grease, anything—up here. Tell them they must delay the soldiers as best they can.”
“They will die,” Judarius said, his tone devoid of emotion. “These people are not properly trained.”
“Does it matter? Delay Karak’s men, Judarius; that is all I ask.”
Judarius nodded. “Stay safe, my friend.”
The black-haired Warden sprinted back across the plank connecting the two walls, ducking to the left and right to avoid the flying arrows, until he disappeared over the stairs. Ahaesarus took a deep breath, counted to ten, and then began to run south along the wall walk. He stayed as low as he could, but it was difficult to stay below the merlons and move at a decent speed. A sharpened arrowhead grazed his back, slicing through his thick leather surcoat and opening a small wound across his spine. He barely felt it. His booted feet crunched on the snow packed on the wall walk. Sweat poured down his face despite the cold.
The wall was long, the distance far, and Ahaesarus forced his legs to churn. He gave up on his hunched run and stood up straight, allowing his long, loping strides to carry him farther and faster. Ashhur’s booming voice filled his head, the god magnifying his voice to relay commands to his children spread throughout the settlement. Ahead and behind he saw people climbing to the top of the wall, men with tall wooden shields protecting the spellcasters from Drake in their drooping furs. Strangely, he didn’t see an archer among them. Arrows thunked into the shields, causing those bearing them to waver. Ahaesarus then looked on as the hands of the spellcasters began to glow. One by one, the stone planks connecting the inner and outer walls exploded in a rain of pebble and dust.
Ahaesarus ran faster.
An arrow passed in front of his eyes, startling him and causing him to lose his footing. He slid forward on his hands and knees, the sword on his hip dragging through the snow behind him. His mind racing, he scampered back to his feet and kept on going. Celestia’s tree, rising above the wall like a broken guardian with half its branches snapped off by hurled boulders, was a half mile ahead of him. If he simply kept his feet moving and was lucky, he would be there in minutes.
Minutes are all we have. He chanced a look out at the valley outside Mordeina. He had passed by the dead forest, and now the sprawling white world to the south opened up before him. Thousands of soldiers, like black ants on a white backdrop, rushed the walls. Their camp stretched from one corner of the land to the other on the horizon. Over the rush of blood in his ears, he heard the soldiers chanting their warbling battle cries. He was once more reminded of the winged demons descending on Algrahar, the memory filling him with crushing hopelessness. Death from above or death from below—it didn’t matter. Both ended in the same way: with the destruction of everything he knew and loved.
Past a chunked and crumbling section of the wall he flew, Celestia’s tree growing larger and larger in his sight. The inner rampart was now crowded with people, his wards and fellow Wardens alike, working feverishly at lugging heavy pots of bubbling grease along the slippery walk or hammering away at the stone planks the spellcasters had yet to destroy.
The arrows had ceased flying once he finally reached Celestia’s tree. He nearly separated his shoulder when he collided with its steel-hard trunk. He immediately climbed to the top of the nearest merlon, grabbing a thick branch for support. He had been correct: From this vantage point, he could see eight towers approaching, each pushed by regiments of fifty. A massive phalanx of what looked to be five thousand soldiers marched behind the towers. He heard a heavy thud from below and leaned over the wall. His breath caught in his throat. There was a veritable hive of soldiers pressing against the base of the outer wall, some hammering away with large mallets at the weakened sections while others nailed differing lengths of ladder together. His gaze shifted, and just below him he saw at least a hundred elves on horseback. Their leader, the largest elf he had ever seen, with scaly black armor and a pair of wicked swords crisscrossed on his back, shouted orders. Thirty of the elves dismounted, snatching ropes from their saddlebags. One by one, they tossed the ropes over the lowest branches of Celestia’s tree, pulling them taut.
And then they began to climb.
“Warden!” he heard a man’s voice shout over the din of crashing hammers and jangling armor. Ahaesarus lifted his gaze. Right in front of him, fifty feet away and slowly closing in, was a wobbling tower. The cloaked man standing atop it had glowing red eyes and black hair that seemed to whip about like writhing snakes. Ahaesarus recognized the man’s slender jaw, his easy posture, the intensity of his stare.
Blood Of Gods (Book 3) Page 30