Blood Of Gods (Book 3)

by David Dalglish

  So many reminders of my failures on the day of our greatest victory.

  From within the settlement came the clang of steel, the shouts of the aggressors, and the shrieks of the dying. Velixar glanced behind him, where Lord Commander Gregorian stood by the hole the soldiers had battered into the weakened stone of the outer wall, and then stared up at his god. He took a knee before him.

  “My Lord, we are beyond your brother’s protection. Allow me the privilege of opening the final gate.”

  Karak put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Do it,” he said.

  Velixar stood and approached the gate, strangely aware of the many eyes watching him from just outside the fissure behind him. Beyond the gate, the slaughter had commenced. His fingers touched the pendant around his neck, feeling its warmth, then found the iron bars, eight inches thick and unbendable. Velixar smiled. That which cannot bend will easily be broken.

  He swiveled his head slightly and looked at the Lord Commander. Malcolm had his arms crossed over his chest, his milky left eye seemingly glowing through the slit in his great helm.

  “Best keep your men back,” Velixar said. The faithful man nodded to him and held his arms out. The eager soldiers gathered behind retreated from the opening.

  “Hold nothing back, High Prophet,” said Karak from behind him. “This is the hour of our victory.”

  Velixar squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. He thought back on the words of the demon whose power he now possessed. In the darkness behind his eyelids, he created a temporal rift within him, expanding his soul outward and inward at the same time. His essence became a shimmering sphere filled with magma swirling at its center. He imagined all of the cosmos, everything connected, and his pendant became a funnel, stretching out into the stars, seeking the heart of the sun that burned above him.

  That sun was Karak. Those flames were his might.

  For you, my Lord. All for you.

  Velixar siphoned the power into himself.

  He felt the energy flow. His nerves tingled, and his hairs stood on end. There was a tightening sensation as his flesh began to stretch with the hugeness of the power he had absorbed, threatening to burst his entire being. The soul is limitless. It is the mind that restricts us. He pictured his body as water, flowing free and formless, and allowed the essence of his god to infuse every particle of his being. Soon, in the world behind his eyelids, he had grown nearly as large as the world itself and just as mighty. He felt close to bursting.

  Do not push it too far. Not yet. Keep yourself restrained.

  He opened his eyes.

  The world seemed to warp in his vision, pulsating with vivid colors. With his body tingling, he raised his hands and fanned his fingers, looking on in awe as shadows flowed around them. He opened his mouth, and words of magic sprung forth, raucous and potent.

  Dark lightning leapt from his hands. A deafening explosion followed as the gate—and a good five feet of the wall bordering it—blasted inward. Smoke billowed and purplish fires blazed that no water could quell. Screams sounded from the other side, filled with terror and pain. Velixar looked behind him at Karak.

  The god seemed pleased. Velixar’s heart soared.

  “Go forth,” Karak said. “Prepare Paradise for my coming.”

  “Lord Commander!” Velixar bellowed when the thick smoke dissipated. “Send in your men!”

  He stepped to the side as Malcolm led the soldiers through the gaps in both walls. The constant drumming of their feet and clank of their armor was music to Velixar’s ears. It seemed to take an age for all four thousand to pass through. Only when the horsemen entered, their chargers huffing and snorting in the lingering smoke, did he enter as well, leaving Karak alone in the chasm.

  “All this will be yours,” Karak told him, his thundering voice confident. “All you must do . . . is seize it.”

  Excitement simmered through Velixar’s core, and he hastened his steps. Lionsbane, impotent next to the power at his disposal, swung on his hip. The place he entered was awash with blood, death, and confusion. The twin barricades that had once turned the causeway that stretched out from the gate into a thin culvert—murder row, as Patrick DuTaureau’s mind had dubbed it—were obliterated, lying in smoking piles of debris on either side of him. Corpses, both human and Warden, covered the ground, their bodies twisted and ruined. More than one had the remains of the gate’s iron bars protruding from him. Velixar stepped off the causeway, and all around him were small pockets of fighting. The heat from his energy and the blast had melted the snow, leaving muddy earth beneath his feet.

  No matter where he looked, he saw bloodshed. Karak’s soldiers pressed onward, the Lord Commander forming his massive regiment into a brutal column that sawed through the settlement’s defenders. Off to the side, Aerland Shen, the Ekreissar Chief, was storming through ranks of opponents, cutting them down with his dual black swords. Screams filled the air. Though they now had steel weapons at their disposal, the people of Paradise had little training and were poorly armored. Men and women fell like blades of grass beneath a swinging scythe. Velixar lifted his eyes and saw the squat, bulky form of Manse DuTaureau sitting on its hill, surrounded by a massive throng of people, tiny as ants in the distance. So many of them. They will be stomped just as easily.

  A bright flash came from his right, and Velixar turned toward it. He saw a cluster of soldiers collapse as small fireballs and waves of electricity washed over them. Beyond those fallen soldiers he spotted six men in heavy cloaks surrounded by a phalanx of Wardens. The spellcasters worked diligently, their hands and mouths in constant motion despite their obvious exhaustion.

  Velixar grinned and twisted his fingers into runes. So powerful was the energy running through him that he didn’t need to utter a single word before two of the Wardens collapsed into shapeless, fleshy heaps, every bone in their bodies crushed. He imagined organs rupturing, and blood erupted from another Warden’s mouth with such force that it rose twenty feet into the air. Shadows leapt from his fingertips, swirling around three more Wardens, spinning them, twisting their bodies until their limbs were ripped from their torsos. Eyeballs boiled in their sockets, hearts burst, faces caved in. The six spellcasters were the last to fall, four of their stomachs splitting open and their entrails vomiting out of them. Those entrails in turn became writhing snakes, choking the life out of the remaining two.

  To Velixar, his work was brutal, effortless, exhilarating.

  He sensed danger approaching and pivoted on the balls of his feet to find an arrow careening toward his head. He had no time to cast a spell to bat the bolt aside, not even time enough to duck, but his confidence didn’t waver. He simply smiled as the arrow caught fire, burning to a cinder as it passed through the swell of energy surrounding him. By the time it struck his billowing cloak, the arrow was nothing but ash. He looked in the direction from which it came, and there was Ashhur, knee deep in soldiers, fighting them off with all his might. Ropes looped around his neck, and as the deity lumbered forward, hacking away with his ethereal sword, he dragged soldiers behind him.

  Velixar hooked his fingers, and a shadowy conduit shot forth, five feet wide and screaming with dark energy. The conduit roared along the ground, obliterating bodies both living and not, kicking up a bloody mist as it sought out its target. It struck Ashhur in the side, enveloping the deity in pulsating tendrils. The god screamed, as did the soldiers attacking him, and then the whole of the area was overcome by a ring of darkness. Purple flames licked along the surface of the swirl like a potent cosmic storm. Velixar laughed and brought his hands together, wringing the dark energy, compressing it, crushing all that was inside. He imagined Ashhur, his heavenly form squeezed thin as a reed, the magma of his life flowing out his mouth, eyes, and ears.

  “I have you.”

  Only he didn’t. Just as his palms met, and the swirling shadow constricted with an audible thwump, Ashhur leapt from within the black. He soared twenty feet into the air, arms and legs splayed,
golden hair trailing behind. His silver armor was dented, the plating seared black, but his flesh was still immaculate. When the deity landed on the other side of the stone barrier that rimmed the southern edge of the settlement, one knee and one foot driving into the earth along with his fist, he lifted his glowing yellow eyes to Velixar and seethed.

  Not even in Haven had he seen Ashhur so full of rage. The god appeared angry enough to crush the entire world in the palm of his hand. With a wrathful deity’s attention fully on him, Velixar felt dread for the first time. Ashhur’s presence also seemed to steel both the Wardens and his children, for they fought with renewed vigor, even those mortally wounded.

  Velixar lifted his hands, and the heads of forty of the corpses surrounding him tore free from their necks. With a whoosh the heads were alight with purple fire, searing away hair and flesh. The skulls left behind still burned, and when he thrust his arms forward they took flight, trailed by licking flames. They flashed through the air, heading for the throng on the other side of the bunker. It was a maneuver to frighten as much as injure, one he had seen utilized in the memory of the Beast of a Thousand Faces, when Kaurthulos’s demons laid siege to Kal’droth’s last elven stronghold.

  It might have worked then, but not now. Ashhur didn’t cower; instead, the deity reached up a single hand, stopping the skulls mid-flight. He made a fist, and the fires extinguished, bits of smoking bone raining down on the blood-drenched snow. The western god then took a menacing step forward, pointing an accusatory finger Velixar’s way.

  Ashhur’s voice echoed in his head, though the god’s mouth never moved. Betrayer. The force of the accusation was nearly enough to drive him to his knees.

  “BROTHER!”

  The sound rocked the countryside, feeling like the moment Celestia split the land to form the Rigon River.

  “YOUR KINGDOM IS MINE.”

  Karak’s voice was swelled with contempt. Ashhur’s eyes shifted to the smoking hole in the wall where the gate had once been, and Velixar looked that way as well. Karak came sauntering out of the hollow, his armor a black so deep it seemed to swallow all light, making the very air around him dim. He held his own ethereal sword in his hand, its blade alight with flames and swirling with shadow. The Divinity of the East took five steps and then stopped, leveling his gaze at his brother.

  Ashhur stared at him, standing as still as the mountain embellishing his scorched breastplate. It seemed as if everything ceased, nearly all combatants stopping mid-swing to gawk at the stare down between the brother gods. The only sounds were the wind, the moans of the dying, and the sobs of those attempting to comfort them.

  It was Ashhur who moved first. He lifted his chin, stared at the bright afternoon sky for a half an instant, and then glared back at his brother. The western deity was statuesque, the embodiment of beauty and dignity with his flowing golden hair and firm posture. Velixar hated him all the more for how much he admired him in that moment.

  “Leave,” Ashhur said, his voice low and menacing. The blue glow of the sword in his hand brightened.

  “No,” Karak said.

  “Then I will make you.”

  “As always, you lack wisdom,” said Karak. “You will not lift a hand against me.”

  As Ashhur tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, seeming puzzled, a low rumbling sound reached Velixar’s ears. Karak gestured down the road behind his brother. Ashhur turned his head, and Velixar could see him visibly deflate, the god’s shoulders hunching.

  The rumbling was the sound of innumerable marching feet. A multitude approached from the northwest, urged onward by soldiers on both foot and horseback. Babes cried, mothers sniffled, old men pleaded for their lives. It was one of the most pathetic scenes Velixar had ever seen.

  The soldiers who’d scaled the walls at distant parts of the settlement had been given firm orders: Be brutal when confronting pockets of resistance, but do not harm the innocents or those unwilling to fight. Instead, they were to gather as many as they could, as quickly as possible, and march them to the southern gate. The five hundred soldiers pushed and prodded the people through the center of the road, where the remains of countless humans and Wardens surrounded them. Bodies were shoved aside to allow room for the bedraggled populace to stagger forward. Velixar was shocked by the numbers he saw: There had to be more than five thousand.

  The captain leading the charge stopped the procession three hundred feet from where Ashhur stood, surrounded by a ragged collection of bleeding defenders. The crowd was close enough now that Velixar could see their faces, see the fear and dismay that showed in their tear-filled eyes.

  “Citizens of Paradise,” said Karak, his voice elevated so that it could be heard from seemingly miles away. He proffered his hand to the still-smoking gate behind him. “These walls were built not to protect, but to enslave. Your creator would deny you your liberation! He has kept you as infants when you should have become strong. My faithful embody the strength you lack; my faithful have been given the means to flourish. Ashhur gave you all you desired, even the very weapons your defenders now hold, but I . . . I allowed my people to grow on their own. The towers outside were crafted by their sweat and labor, the steel they wear and hold molded by their brothers. Accept these gifts. Accept the knowledge I offer. The time for remaining children has passed. I do not wish to destroy you. I wish for you to be FREE!”

  Velixar watched with interest as the multitudes shuffled and mumbled among themselves. A woman stepped forward. She was old, with white hair and wrinkled flesh, but her posture was straight as an arrow. She glanced once at her deity, then threw her head back and stared at the god who opposed them.

  “And if we refuse your liberation?” she asked.

  Behind her, the massive crowd murmured. They were growing unruly.

  Karak crossed his sword over his chest. “A land divided is a land of chaos, and I will have order in my kingdom.”

  “This is not your kingdom,” Ashhur proclaimed. The Wardens and humans surrounding him began to spread out, lifting their weapons.

  “The peoples’ lives are in my hands, not yours,” Karak said, eyes narrowing. “Tell me truly, whose kingdom does that make it then?”

  The western deity frowned.

  Karak shook his head and turned back to the throng. “Come to me, people of Paradise. Turn your back on this feeble god.” He pointed toward Velixar. “Do as the first of your kind did long ago. Come into my arms. Allow me to make you as powerful as he.”

  Velixar’s heart filled with pride, swelling the power that already existed within him. He took a step forward and looked toward the unkempt citizens, holding his arms out wide, feeling the heat on his cheeks as the glow of his eyes intensified. I will be an example for them. I will be a beacon of Karak’s glory.

  Amazingly, the old woman who had stepped forward lowered herself to her knees. The thousands behind her were hesitant at first, but eventually they followed her lead. The sound of the knees of the assembly hitting the ground, one after the other, was like a stampede of horses through a sodden field. Velixar smiled warmly, his pride growing. His eyes kept returning to Ashhur, trying to gauge the deity’s reaction to his people turning their faith to Karak, but his face was like stone.

  Karak stepped through the maze of corpses with long, purposeful strides. It was then that Velixar noticed something odd, something he had not noticed during the rush of battle. More than half of the bodies on the ground were long dead, their skin gray going on blue, their joints stiff to the point of immovability. Those bodies had not been there two days ago, when last he had seen the outside world through the eyes of Patrick DuTaureau. He could think of no reason for them to be there now.

  Karak spoke, yanking that contemplation from his mind. “My new children. I welcome you into my arms. You may not be forever safe and warm in them, but you will . . . ”

  His words trailed away as the old woman who first knelt began to sing. It was a sweet song, one filled with hope and love. “And let Ashhur al
ways hold us in his arms,” she crooned. Soon a few of the others behind her joined in, the song rising in volume, voice added to voice until at least half of the immense congregation was lifting their song to the heavens. To Velixar’s ears, the sound was like the scraping of steel on stone. His mouth dropped open. These people . . . these children . . . would they prefer death to the freedom of creating one’s own life? Would they rather cower in the arms of Ashhur than stand strong before Karak’s dignified order? It made no sense. They were frightened, confused, and they knew with each word they sang, they sank deeper into their own graves. Yet still they sang.

  Still they sang.

  Velixar looked to Ashhur. The god’s face was still as stone, but tears flowed from his eyes.

  “You leave me no choice,” Karak said, his voice thundering over the chaos of the five thousand. “Above all else, I will have order.”

  “You never will,” Ashhur said, and though it was spoken as a whisper, Velixar heard it with ease. “Not this year, not this century, not this millennium will you ever have the order you crave. You are chasing illusions, and I will not let you destroy my people in your wake. I promised to protect them, no matter the cost, and so I will.”

  His head dipped as Karak bellowed for his soldiers to ready their blades.

  “No matter the cost,” said Ashhur.

  A brilliant light flared from the god’s eyes, so bright that Velixar could not look lest he be blinded. As he covered his face with his hands, a single, deafening word rocked the landscape.