Ahaesarus shook his head. “You were right, he is the sensitive one,” he spoke, looking at Judarius’s corpse. “And perhaps he is also the smartest of us all.” He looked up at Celestia’s tree, its branches pressing upward into the late winter sky, and followed Azariah and his students into the settlement, walking with a slight limp.
Unlike the exterior, inside the walls there was no time for sadness and disbelief. The last four days had been spent repairing what had been lost. With Karak having fled, Ashhur dismantled the bunker he had raised, using the stones to rebuild and expand on the murder row lining the road leading into the settlement. The usable lumber from shattered edifices was repurposed into new constructions. The numerous dead horses were hauled away, to be butchered and salted for the nearly starving populace.
Those four days also featured preparations for the march east, which was set to begin on this day at noon. The remaining horses were saddled, supply wagons built, weapons gathered. Discarded armor from Karak’s Army had been collected, the black painted over before being distributed among those who would depart. All supplies were amassed at the base of Manse DuTaureau’s hill, and the crowd was thick. Wives and mothers offered their husbands and sons teary goodbyes. Young King Benjamin was out as well, Ahaesarus was happy to see, with Howard Baedan steering him through the people, along with Isabel DuTaureau’s children and grandchildren. And halfway up the hill, Ashhur knelt in the sparse snow, holding court with a gaggle of youths. Ahaesarus felt his heart plummet at the sight. Ashhur was always at his benign best when speaking with children, his godly face beaming, the glow of his eyes bringing vibrancy to the landscape that didn’t exist even on the brightest of days. Yet none of that was in evidence at the moment. The deity appeared sidetracked, exhausted, even glum, as if he wanted to be somewhere else, and from the looks on the children’s faces, they noticed it.
Ahaesarus glanced up at the manse and thought he saw the outline of a redheaded waif in one of the windows. Isabel seemed to look right at him despite the distance. He shook his head and turned away.
The decision to pursue Karak had been met with bewilderment at first. In the aftermath of the bloodiest day in the history of Paradise, and with the shock of seeing the dead rise, not many knew how to react. Ashhur had preached, trying to convince his creations that what he wished for was righteous, but the response he received from his people were hesitant at best. It wasn’t until Patrick DuTaureau, his Turncloaks, and a collection of two hundred men and women who resided in the northwest corner of Mordeina voiced their enthusiastic support for the plan that the others joined in. Whereas Ashhur pleaded with their sense of justice and the need to survive, Patrick drew on a much more base desire—vengeance. The morning of that second day, he had stormed through the assembly, screaming at the top of his lungs, fire in his countenance. Many then joined the cause.
In the end, more than thirty thousand volunteered, men and women, the young, old, and infirm. So many offered their services that most had to be turned away. There simply weren’t enough armor and weapons to go around, and Ashhur was adamant that he wouldn’t send his children into battle unprepared.
A little too late for that, Ahaesarus thought at the time, then felt guilty immediately after.
Now he scanned the crowd, looking for Patrick, but could see only the elder leader of the Turncloaks guiding his young cohorts in saddling the last of the horses. Finally, he spotted the malformed redheaded man, riding from the front gate, that giant sword of his resting on his lap. The look on his face was intense, his posture strangely rigid. A young girl ran up to the side of his horse and pulled on the leg of his mailed breeches, but he shoved her hand away. Ahaesarus frowned at the sight. He had always known Patrick to be a carefree sort, crass yet loving, and even insightful at times. To see him act this way made him feel the same as when he saw Ashhur teaching the children—distraught.
The misshapen man rode up to him. “Master Warden,” Patrick said, no humor in his tone.
“Patrick.”
“It’s time.”
Ahaesarus nodded. Neither said another word.
Ashhur rose to his feet and lifted a giant horn to his lips. His golden hair flowed around him like a mane of silk. When he blew into the instrument, the trumpeting rang throughout the walled settlement with the force of an erupting volcano. All work ceased, all eyes turned to their god.
“Citizens of Paradise, my precious children, the time to forge your own destiny is now.”
The fighting men and women formed haphazard ranks. Horses were tethered to the wagons and whips cracked. Ashhur gave the word, and mismatched armor clanked and spears thudded against the ground as the new army of eight thousand surged forward. They were a flood of flesh and steel, flowing toward the newly reconstructed front gate, too disorganized to form the lines necessary to pass through without creating a logjam. One hundred seventy-five of the remaining one hundred eighty-three Wardens marched at their lead, trying to get them under control.
Ahaesarus lingered by Ashhur’s side in front of the inner wall, watching the force approach. Patrick and the Turncloaks were there as well, and the Master Warden studied them. The soldiers who had turned against Karak didn’t seem as somber or frightened as the rest, and they gazed up at Ashhur with utmost respect. Even Patrick seemed to join in, his sullen mood interrupted when one of the youngest of the Turncloaks leaned over and whispered in his ear. Patrick threw his head back and laughed. “A tit?” he said through his guffaws. “He thought it was a tit? Ha!”
Then came the rumbling, and all laughter ceased. The ground shook, causing the advancing army to stop and hold their arms out to keep their balance. Ashhur took a step forward, his image wavering in Ahaesarus’s vision. The god gazed skyward, and the quaking of the earth ceased. The people of Mordeina shuffled about nervously, murmuring to each other. Something odd was happening, they could feel it in the air. Ahaesarus hurried to the front of the army, to where Ashhur marched, seemingly oblivious to the now fearful brightness of the sun.
“My Lord,” the Warden said, putting a hand on Ashhur’s forearm. Before his god could respond, Ahaesarus heard the voice. It was soft, feminine, and seemed to float on the wind.
My love . . . my love, you must stop this folly.
Ahaesarus immediately understood who spoke. It seemed all the land stood still, and when he looked about, it was truer than he thought possible. The horses were frozen, the people unmoving. Though the Warden felt wind blowing from all directions, not a strand of hair blew, nor a single thread of clothing. Even the sparse clouds in the sky remained in place. Only he and Ashhur seemed unaffected, and standing there in the sudden stillness chilled Ahaesarus to the bone.
Ashhur inclined his head and closed his hands into fists. “I cannot, my love.”
Celestia’s voice came again. Allow your brother to return to his home. Do not pursue.
“We must,” said Ashhur, lifting his gaze to the heavens. “I have no choice.”
There is always a choice. My world weeps, and I weep with it. Seek peace, not more death.
When Ashhur spoke next, it was with rage that matched his fury at the sight of his brother storming through the walls of Mordeina.
“You come to me with a plea for peace? I, who never wished for this war? I, who beseeched my brother until the final moment to turn back? I have done nothing but defend the lives of my creations! If you wish for this to end, my love, go to him! Demand Karak leave this land and never return. Do it, and see how he answers!”
When the god’s mouth snapped shut, the eerie silence stretched on and on. Ahaesarus was afraid, too afraid to voice his fear, and could only stand by his god and wait for the goddess to reply.
Is that your wish? Walk with care, my love. I spared you once, but not again. My world will not crumble as yours did. You, and the people you have created, are on your own.
“We have always been on our own,” said Ashhur. “You left us to starve and die, and for what reason? Balance? Come to
me! Come look me in the eye and tell me I am no different from my brother. Tell me we need one another, and the world must have us for your precious balance. My heart yearns to hear just how many lies your lips can spill before your own world turns against you.”
Ahaesarus was stunned by the god’s anger. He’d always thought these two so close, so dear to one another, integral in forging Dezrel into the land it now was. But this . . . this was frightening. When next Ahaesarus heard the goddess speak, there was a fire in her voice.
I offered you solace. I offered you a chance for redemption, to atone for your mistakes. You spoke of a new world, and tempted me with the spectacle of creation. I have witnessed many wondrous things, but the terrors have started to overwhelm the glory. These lands you squabble over are mine, not yours, yet they run with blood.
“Lands given to us,” challenged Ashhur. “And it is our blood that spills.”
And more still will be shed. My eyes are upon you. Do not forget it.
The ground shook, and with a sudden rush of air Ahaesarus realized they were once more within the normal grip of time. People looked about; shrieks filled the air, and to Ahaesarus it sounded eerily similar to five days before, when Karak overtook Mordeina’s walls. An enormously loud series of cracks came next, followed by what sounded like a massive landslide. Ahaesarus rushed forward, trying to calm the panicked horde of people, but he lost his footing when the land beneath him shifted. It felt like the whole world was crumbling. He imagined giant fissures opening up and swallowing Ashhur and all he’d created.
“The tree!” someone shouted, and soon a veritable chorus joined in. Fingers pointed toward the wall. “The tree is falling, the tree!”
Ahaesarus winced as he stood, his bad leg throbbing, and looked toward Celestia’s tree. The giant branches swayed and broke loose, sending people screaming for cover. Its trunk developed a sickly gray color and caved in on itself. Great puffs of ash rose each time another portion fell. The sound of the chunks plummeting to the ground was like the heavens ripping open.
The tree continued to collapse, until it finally caught fire and broke apart. The branches bounced against the wall as they descended, leaving deep gouges in the stone and exploding into billowing clouds of ash. The fire in its center gave forth one final bright flash and then darkened. In a matter of moments, all that remained of the colossal tree was a lingering haze of dust and smoke.
Although most backed away, Ahaesarus approached the gap in the wall that the tree had blocked. He could see the undead out there, clear as day, unmoving as they stared east.
“Damn,” he heard Patrick say. “Well, at least it’ll be easier to march all these people out now.”
Glancing over, Ahaesarus saw that Patrick wasn’t smiling. He then turned to his god, who shook his head while he stared at the gap. He looked tired and annoyed, and the golden glow of his eyes was faded.
“What do we do now?” the Master Warden asked.
“I must fix the breach,” the god replied. “I will not leave those who remain behind unprotected.”
“Are you strong enough?” Patrick asked.
“I have to be.”
“Yes, but what then?” asked Ahaesarus. “After the wall is fixed? Karak has enough of a head start as it is.”
“This changes nothing,” said Ashhur. The god gazed through the fissure, staring at the red glow that lit the horizon. “We must simply ride faster.”
CHAPTER
31
An army of people waited outside Port Lancaster’s walls, milling about as if they had nothing better to do. Behind was a line of wagons that stretched for nearly a half mile, with smaller groups of people congregating around each wagon. The vast majority were women. Catherine Brennan shook her head as she stared down at them from atop the wall tower that loomed over the city’s main portcullis. The door to the elegant carriage at the front of the procession opened, and out stepped a white-haired woman and two bald men dressed in draping crimson frocks, their powdered noggins dull in the twilight gloom. Catherine groaned. The brothers had written her requesting a meeting to discuss a thin stretch of land that resided between Riverrun and Thettletown, which Matthew had laid claim to for years. The two families had often battled over that parcel of land, where there was a convenient fjord in the Queln River and an impressive number of massive trees. Catherine now knew for certain, with the amount of people in the Connington’s party, that the meeting was a ruse. She’d expected as much.
One of the brothers—it was difficult to tell which one—lifted his head to her and waved. Catherine let out a disgusted grunt and waved back.
“You want me to get rid of them, boss?” asked Bren Torrant.
“No,” Catherine said. “Allow those three in.”
“Just the brothers and the woman?”
“For now.”
“What about the rest?”
“They can wait outside. Now let’s go down there and welcome our guests.”
After descending the wall tower, Bren spoke through the bars to the Conningtons before organizing those under his command, lining up his sellswords on either side of the entrance. Their eyes were locked on the gate as it slowly lifted. “Swords and spears resting on shoulders,” Bren told his charges, pacing up and down the line. “Let them be wary.”
Catherine smiled as Bren took his place by her side. She fluffed out the long, frilly skirt she wore, trying to further hide the swell of the baby growing inside her. Some things they mustn’t know about, she thought.
When the gate was all the way up, Romeo and Cleo Connington strolled inside, portly as ever, joined by the white-haired woman. It was the woman on whom Catherine focused. She was quite tall and had a stately manner, and despite her age, she walked upright as if a rod had been shoved up her ass. Catherine recognized her immediately; even if she had not met her a few times before, the resemblance to her sons, with her circular and hefty nose, low cheekbones, and squinting eyes, was obvious.
Catherine furrowed her brow. Lady Meredith Connington almost never left Riverrun: She was the village steward during her sons’ frequent periods traipsing throughout Neldar on business ventures. Her presence validated Catherine’s fears.
The Conningtons wanted Port Lancaster.
“Ah, my dear Catherine,” said Cleo Connington in his high-pitched voice. “So good to see you.” The fat man approached her with his hands clenched over his heart and his head tilted to the side. He then bowed before her and took her hand in his, kissing the back of it. His fingers felt soft as a baby’s bottom; his lips, like a pair of worms after a rainstorm.
Cleo stepped aside, and Romeo, the elder and gruffer of the two brothers, took his place.
“It is kind of you to allow us entrance into your city,” he said, though his frown and tone belied the sincerity of his words. Regardless, he echoed his brother’s actions, bowing, grabbing her hand, and kissing it. Thankfully, Romeo’s hands felt rough, like a man’s should be. His lips, however, were just as moist and disgusting.
Lady Connington didn’t approach her; instead, she curtseyed from a distance. Catherine nodded to her before turning back to the brothers.
“Your letter said nothing of bringing such a large entourage.”
“My, my, Catherine, how blunt you’ve become,” said Cleo with a snigger.
“One must be blunt when a rival arrives at your doorstep and expects you to feed a thousand new mouths.”
“One thousand two hundred and thirty-eight to be exact,” Romeo said. “And who said anything about you feeding them?”
Catherine chuckled. “I’m the regent of this city in the absence of my husband, and if I allow them to enter, they will be guests within my walls. Who else would it fall on to feed them if not me, you halfwit?” She almost said more, but doing so would betray her suspicions. So she kept quiet.
Romeo scowled and sucked on his upper lip.
“Now, now, Brother,” Cleo sang out, prancing between them. He was light on his feet for a f
at man. “There is no need to be unpleasant. You are speaking with a widow.” He then turned to Catherine, bowing once more. “You have our condolences, milady Brennan. Matthew was a splendid man, and shrewd. You must tell us how he perished. And also you must please forgive us for our presumption. Rest assured, you will not need to feed those we brought with us. There is enough grain and vegetables and salted meats in our wagons to feed three times that many for a month.”
“I don’t need your pity, Cleo. And I assume this bounty of food you’ve brought is also a bribe to let your people through our gate?”
Cleo clapped his hands together. “Such splendid frankness! Do you see this, Brother? Whatever happened to the demure Catherine we’ve always known?”
“She became the leader of a city, with real problems to worry over,” Catherine replied. Though Meredith Connington had yet to speak, she glanced at her anyway. The left corner of the older woman’s lip twitched for a moment, then fell still. Catherine knew that was the closest thing to a smile she could hope to get from the woman.
“Ah, yes,” said Romeo with a nod. “The housewife is now the grand ruler of Port Lancaster. How lovely.”
“I think it splendid!” squealed Cleo.
Bren fidgeted beside her, and all it took was a quick glimpse to see that the sellsword was wringing his fist around the hilt of his sheathed sword. Catherine knew he wanted to hack the fat brothers to bits. She couldn’t blame him.
“Enough of this foolishness,” said Lady Connington. Her voice was cold, her words like tiny shards of ice. “You have business to attend to, and I have many people to get situated.”
Blood Of Gods (Book 3) Page 37