Blood Of Gods (Book 3)

by David Dalglish

  Preston trotted up to him on his horse as they circled the lip of the gulch. “So that was . . . impressive. Where are we now?”

  Patrick pointed to the west, where another thick grouping of trees stood. “The sea is forty miles that way. Fifty miles north will be the Whitetail River.” He grinned. “And if we loop around this wood here, it’s another couple miles until we reach the Gods’ Road.”

  “You know this place?” asked Tristan.

  “I do,” he nodded. “That cave has been there for as long as I’ve been alive . . . though it didn’t always run as long as it does now. I spent a lot of time in there as a child, exploring all the odd things that lived in the darkness. Good times.”

  “You loved spending time in caves?” Joff asked.

  “Of course,” Patrick told him. “When one looks like me, the darkness can be liberating.”

  Big Flick scrunched up his face. “What’s that mean?”

  “It means I was teased a lot as a child. Children can be cruel, as I’m sure you know.”

  “But you were a child of a First Family,” said Ragnar. “Doesn’t that mean something?”

  “Only if your mother wishes for it to have that influence.” Patrick grunted. “Alas, the great Isabel wished for me to learn to deal with the japes on my own.”

  They rode for an hour, the sun slowly inching higher into the sky. An eerie feeling crept up Patrick’s spine. Despite the relative quietness of the day, he could hear odd sounds below the howling of the wind. It sounded like the far-off caw of an eagle combined with the rumble of a grayhorn stampede. He knew what it meant. Guilt at his decision to go on this vengeful quest formed a lump in the back of his throat. He had left his people behind. His armor suddenly felt too constricting, the furs on top too heavy.

  “You hear that, don’t you?” asked Preston.

  Patrick nodded.

  “Hear what?” asked Edward, a bit too loudly.

  “Shut up,” Patrick snapped before Denton could clout the young soldier. He turned to Preston, who stared in annoyance at his son. “The attack began. Sounds like it’s for real this time. We should have stayed.”

  Preston chuckled to himself and shook his head. “We are twenty-three men, Patrick. If Karak has begun a full assault, what difference would we make against fifteen thousand trained soldiers?” A grin stretched across his wrinkled mouth, pulling up the sides of his beard. “But out here, away from Mordeina, we might do some good. I would wager Karak will attack with all he has, all at once, without the slightest possibility of defeat entering his head. If he does that, then only a sparse force will remain behind to guard his supply wagons.”

  “So this might not be a suicide mission after all,” Patrick said. His guilt subsided slightly, replaced by the nervous excitement that he had felt in Haven when Karak’s Army first attacked.

  “We’ll have surprise on our side.” Preston peered over his shoulder. “So long as no idiot gives away our approach.”

  Edward hung his head. Ragnar, his brother, trotted up to him and placed a comforting hand on his back. They are seasoned men in battle, yet sensitive boys when not thus engaged. Patrick almost burst out laughing at the absurdity of it all. His humor, however, lasted only until Ryann spoke up.

  “If Karak takes Mordeina, what’s the point of torching a few wagons?” Ryann asked. “Won’t the war be over?”

  Patrick swallowed down a massive lump in his throat.

  “You can’t think like that,” he said. “We do what we can, to the best of our ability. Let the gods deal with the rest.”

  He led his troupe into the wood, following a winding path he still remembered, even though it had been more than fifty years since he’d stepped foot on it. Snow crunched under their horses’ hooves; ice fell from the leafless branches overhead; and the clamor of war grew ever louder. The farther into the forest they went, however, the more stumps of felled trees they found. It looked like the center of the woods had been clear-cut—no doubt the result of hundreds of campfires and the numerous siege weapons Karak’s Army had built. Patrick’s heart began to race, and he reached behind his head, pulling Winterbone from its sheath. Having a weapon at hand seemed to help, at least a little.

  The trees again rose up, the closer to Mordeina they drew, these ones brittle, their trunks hollowed out and devoid of life from when Ashhur had drained them of their essence to create the grayhorn-men. Patrick halted his mare, and those following did the same. He climbed out of the saddle, as did Preston, and together they trudged through the dead wood. They were at the edge now, and with no foliage to conceal them, he felt naked. If anyone looked their way, they would be spotted immediately.

  “Looks like I was right,” Preston said.

  Patrick squinted, rising up on his toes and straightening out as much as he could with his humped back. He saw countless tents populating the valley’s ridge, and behind them were a seemingly never-ending row of covered wagons. “I don’t see any soldiers,” he whispered.

  Preston chortled lightly. “The soldiers are there,” he said, pointing. Patrick followed his finger and saw a line of perhaps sixty of them, small as figurines as they stood in a line farther out in the snowy valley, facing Mordeina’s walls.

  “But what about other people?” Patrick asked. “Those who, you know, service the camp. Wouldn’t they be needed?”

  “Not here, not in Karak’s Army,” said Preston. “When Karak started this war, he pulled from their lives nearly all the men old enough to fight. Need a blacksmith? There are a hundred soldiers who have been blacksmiths all their lives. The same with chefs, tailors, and horsemasters—any profession that would be of use to a traveling army is here. If something needs doing, there is a man to do it, one who can still pick up his sword and run into battle when the time comes.”

  “But all men?”

  Preston nodded. “You will find few women here, perhaps none at all. Our regiment in the Delta had only seven, not counting the Lord Commander, and all of those seven were sent away early on.”

  “Why? Would they not be useful in battle as well? After all, Moira and Rachida were two of the best fighters I’ve ever seen. By gods, a quarter of our warriors in Haven were women. Many of the archers in Mordeina are too.”

  “Neldar holds a . . . different view of the fairer sex,” said Preston with a nod. “I assume Karak feels that having women on the battlefield will be nothing but a distraction. It is simply the way life is in Karak’s Army, and also yet another reason why Ashhur must win. Should Karak come out the victor . . . and to the victor goes the spoils . . . with all those men who have not lain with a woman for more than a year . . . ”

  “I get it,” Patrick grumbled. “No need to spell it out.”

  “Very well.”

  They turned around and headed back to their awaiting compatriots, who had remained deeper in the dead wood. “What do we do?” asked Little Flick when they both climbed back atop their horses.

  Tristan shifted eagerly in his saddle, his hands flexing. “Yeah, what’s the plan?”

  “We charge,” said Preston. “The soldiers are all lined in a row, though there may be more inside the tents. Their attention is on the siege, so be quick, be brutal, and ride fast. No yelling, no talking. Let the horse’s hooves be the only warning. The tents are arranged into rows, like we had in the delta. Ride between them, so your horses don’t trip. For those of you new to this, each of you follows behind one of my boys. They’ll show you the way.”

  Denton and the fourteen others went white as fallen snow, but they nodded nonetheless.

  With that, Patrick led them out of the forest a little farther back on the Gods’ Road. When they emerged they spread out five wide, with each of the young Turncloaks leading one or two of the new warriors brought by Denton Noonan. They sat in place for a few moments, Patrick allowing the nerves of all present to harden before offering a brisk nod and bringing his horse to gallop. Preston fell in beside him, with Ragnar, Edward, Tristan, and Joff forming
the first line. The repetitive sound of hooves beating the frozen earth was like the endless rumble of thunder.

  They swerved around a bend in the road, and the camp of Karak’s Army opened up before them. The soldiers’ attentions were still fixed on the battle waging in the far-off city, and for a second Patrick doubted their plan. Their rush was so loud, it was sure to attract their attention, and should that happen, they would have at least two minutes to prepare themselves for what was to come. If there was one thing Patrick had learned about battle over the last three years, it was that two minutes could be a lifetime.

  Yet the soldiers never turned, instead keeping their eyes on the distant walled settlement as if transfixed. Patrick allowed himself to glance up, and he saw bright flashes light up the sky above Mordeina. That can’t be good, he thought. He tore his eyes away and had to shove aside worry for his sisters, nieces, and nephews, all locked away inside Manse DuTaureau. Should any harm come to them . . .

  Stop it. Focus. He lifted Winterbone and held it out before him like a lance.

  He veered his horse through the rows between the tents, keeping his vision fixed on the soldiers. He saw one of the tents billow, but he wasn’t sure if that was due to the bitter wind or someone moving about inside. Not that it mattered. Any who emerged would receive their due when the most present threat was taken care of. On and on thumped the hoof beats, but the battle from afar was so loud and full of chaos, it appeared to be an unexpected blessing.

  They were only twenty feet away from the soldiers when finally the one at the end of the line turned. He was an older man, and a smile was on his lips. That smile faltered when he saw Patrick on his horse, and it disappeared completely when Patrick hacked down with Winterbone, cleaving his face from his skull. The man collapsed, clutching at the bloody ruin where his face had once been. He disappeared as Patrick’s horse shot past the soldiers, galloping out into the field a good fifty feet before he yanked the reins and turned around.

  The rest of the soldiers whirled in a confused panic just as Patrick’s mates descended on them. Seventeen fell during that first pass, the twenty-two other riders fanning out and hacking away. The unharmed soldiers fumbled for their weapons, but they were too shaken, too surprised. By the time the first few had pulled out their swords, each of their attackers was charging once more.

  Another fourteen died on the second pass.

  This time when Patrick and his regiment tried to turn around, they had to maneuver through the tents to do so, allowing the thirty remaining soldiers to ready themselves. Panicked orders rang out among Karak’s men, and they spread out, dashing this way and that in an attempt to separate their assailants. Patrick’s militia didn’t fall for it. Denton and two of the other men from Paradise, David and Michael, sheathed their swords and pulled out their homemade bows. They fired shot after shot at the soldiers while the rest continued the assault. Patrick spied the three of them over his shoulder for just a second, in awe that these men who had only seen a true battle once could adapt so well when the moment called for it.

  Patrick chased after three soldiers who scooted between the rows of tents, heading for the supply carts. As he rode, this time he did see two other men emerge from the canvas enclosures, looking bewildered and frightened. These two never had a chance to draw their weapons, for Preston and Ragnar were on them a moment later, running them both through.

  The three soldiers veered once more, and instead of swerving along with them, Patrick went against Preston’s advice and charged straight through the tents. His mare trampled them, scattering iron cookware, piles of smallclothes, and stones across the snow. Once the horse’s rear hoof became tangled with the corner of one of the tents, but after a momentary stumble the beast righted itself and kept on galloping.

  He came upon one of the soldiers an instant later, driving Winterbone down and piercing the man through the back of the neck. The soldier lifted off the ground, impaled on the sword’s blade, his legs still kicking. Patrick’s forearms screamed at him with the extra weight, and he jerked upward. The razor-sharp blade ripped through the soldier’s scull, shearing it in half and freeing the sword. Blood sprayed everywhere as the soldier fell. Patrick winced, switched the massive sword from one hand to the other, and shook the pain out of his arm.

  Big and Little Flick had cornered another of the fleeing men, viciously hacking at him. Patrick pulled back on the reins, bringing his mare up on its hind legs for a moment. When the beast returned to all fours, he spun in a circle. He saw no more standing soldiers, only his twenty-two brothers-in-arms, all hovering over the last of their kills.

  Patrick whirled back around, searching for the final fleeing soldier. Grunting, his blood racing through his veins, he sheathed Winterbone, hopped off his horse, and began to walk down the line of supply wagons. Each cart was surrounded by a mound of snow that rose to the top of the wheels, and he noticed that one of those mounds had a deep impression in the center. When he reached it, he ducked down and saw a pair of feet pushing against the snow, desperately trying to get away.

  “Got you,” Patrick said.

  He grasped the booted feet with both hands and yanked, and the soldier slid out from beneath the wagon with ease. When he was fully exposed, Patrick roughly kicked him onto his back, grabbed him by the neck of his breastplate, and lifted him to standing. The soldier screeched and tried to get away.

  “Please!” the soldier said. “Don’t hurt me!”

  Patrick released him and took a step backward. The soldier before him was young, no older than Joffrey, the youngest Turncloak. He had a head of silver hair, a slender jaw, and light-blue eyes like seaglass. He looked like he could have been Moira Elren’s brother in another life.

  Tears streamed down the young soldier’s cheeks. “Please,” he groveled, clutching his hands to his chest like a small child. “Please, I-I don’t want to hurt anyone. I just want to go home.”

  “You want to go home?” Patrick asked.

  The boy nodded. Patrick almost pulled the dagger out of his belt and shoved it into the boy’s throat right there, but something stopped him.

  My son will be that age one day, he thought. He dropped his hands to his sides.

  “Go,” Patrick said.

  “What?” asked the soldier.

  “I’m not going to tell you twice. Go. Now. Before I change my mind.”

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” the young soldier repeated as he crept along the side of the wagon. When he reached the edge, he turned and began running through the snow, heading south toward the Gods’ Road. Patrick watched him go, his inner thoughts in turmoil. Then he saw a shadow pass over his head, and a moment later the fleeing boy fell. His body shuddered for a moment and then stilled, an arrow protruding from the back of his head.

  “You got him, Denton!” he heard one of the other men shout.

  Patrick turned, his fists clenched, and spotted Denton Noonan sitting atop his horse, three of his compatriots patting him on the back. Patrick was about to charge him, but strong hands grasped his wrist, spinning him back around.

  “Don’t,” Preston told him.

  “I let the boy go,” Patrick growled.

  “Denton didn’t know that.”

  “He should have.”

  Patrick shrugged out of Preston’s grasp and stormed through the snow, approaching the body of another of the soldiers he’d felled. He kicked the corpse, and it spun over. He gazed down at the face of a boy not much older than the one he had decided to set free. This one had wavy chestnut hair and eyes of a deep green that were already beginning to grow milky with death.

  “Children,” he muttered.

  “Karak left behind those he thought either too old or too young to fight,” Preston said.

  “How many?”

  “Seventy.”

  Seventy men, killed in less than ten minutes. It was a horrific thought, and one that threatened to make him pitch the wine still sitting in his stomach all over the ground.


  “Karak turned children into monsters,” Patrick whispered. “We’re no different. Joff is fourteen.”

  “As the books say, war makes monsters of all of us,” said Preston. “We do what we must do to survive, and that is all. It’s something we all must accept at some point.”

  “This used to be Paradise,” Patrick said, his mind in a daze. “It used to be beautiful. Now it’s just like me.”

  “Patrick, don’t say such things. You don’t know—”

  “Shut it, old man,” Patrick snapped. “You don’t get to tell me how to feel.”

  Preston put his hands up and backed away. In the background, the battle raging within Mordeina’s walls rose in volume. Patrick’s anger began to churn once more. He peered over his hump at the grayed soldier.

  “Go get the tindersticks,” he said, his voice low and grave. “Set fire to every wagon.”

  “Hurry,” Preston shouted to the others. “If we’re quick, we can be back to the cave in no time.”

  “No,” Patrick said, grabbing him by the shoulder and spinning him around to face him. “We’re not running. There’s a battle raging, and we’ll go galloping in head first.”

  Preston’s hard, pale eyes stared into his.

  “And if Karak has won before we reach the melee?” he asked.

  Patrick felt his blood run cold, but this was something he would not budge on, was something he knew was right.

  “We charge, even then. Even unto death. If we’re going to die, we’ll die as good men protecting the innocent. Not as monsters. Never monsters, not ever again.”

  CHAPTER

  27

  KARAK, FACE ME!” Ashhur had said.

  Velixar let the memory of the western god’s challenge wash over him. There had been so much anger in those words, and he swore there was a hint of fear as well. He glanced up and saw Karak smiling as he stood before the gate cut into Mordeina’s inner wall, his glowing eyes lighting the dim, cramped space. Behind him was the pile of rubble from Velixar’s previous failed attempt to overrun the settlement, and behind that was the ironlike trunk of Celestia’s tree. All around were the broken bodies of the dead and dying, those who had plummeted from the top of the wall during the invasion. Half were men from Paradise; the rest, soldiers of Karak.