The other beasts close to the deity nervously backed away. For a moment Ashhur simply stood there, staring at them, while blood fizzled and popped on his glowing blade. Eerily calm, he knelt down and placed his fingers on the already scorched ground. Flames immediately sparked to life, racing away from the god in either direction like twin waves and rising twenty feet into the air. The wall of fire raced along in front of the swaying undead as it circled around them. The inferno blocked Patrick’s view of the beasts, but their shrieks and howls of pain could be heard over the violent crackle of the flames. He had to shield his eyes from the brightness as the atmosphere became superheated. Sweat rolled over his brow.
Ashhur shuddered for the briefest of moments, and the flames died away, retreating back toward the being who had created them, revealing a ring of smoking, humanlike corpses. There had to have been more than a thousand of them. Patrick squinted, looking on as his god forced himself to his feet. When he took his first step, his right knee buckled, and he almost fell. His face was more drained than ever before.
And then it was over, the beasts’ howls echoing across the land as they fled into the distance. Ashhur strode back toward his children, the deity’s armor caked with blood, his expression tired. Men rushed Ashhur, falling to their knees before him, begging the god to say he would keep them safe. Patrick thought he saw Ashhur’s dimly glowing eyes well with tears as he knelt down among his flock, allowing them to gather around him and offering reassuring words. This seemed to lift the mood of the men, a sentiment that passed through their great numbers like a wave. Soon many of them wore smiles, even if most were wary. The din of the fleeing beast-men drifted into the background, seemingly forgotten. Patrick couldn’t help but think of Mordeina and the many villages outside Paradise’s capital settlement. It seemed they would need Ashhur’s protection far more than those here at his side.
Patrick glanced behind him as the last of the beast-men disappeared into the lingering smoke. A cluster of brawny wolf-men was the last to leave, casting hateful stares at the god of the west before they themselves disappeared. For a moment Patrick took in the reality of all that surrounded him, and had to fight back despair; where there had once been forests and grass, there was now a country of glowing, smoldering coals. It hardly looked like a land worth fighting for.
Yet fight we will. His resolve grew as he watched his god calmly nurture his children. Patrick climbed down from the wagon and sought out the company of his Turncloaks, his brothers-in-arms. If Ashhur is willing to sacrifice so much of himself, how can we do any less?
The Wardens reorganized the people into their formations, and soon the march began anew. Ahaesarus took the lead, his extremely long legs churning as he jogged, sword raised, ushering his wards onward while Ashhur loped behind him. Patrick found Duncan and retook his stallion, his knees throbbing as he climbed into the saddle. He exchanged a few casual remarks with Preston, Edward, and Tristan as they cantered, but his gaze kept finding its way back to his god. Ashhur looked like he might fade away right then and there. Patrick wished there were a steed large enough to carry him.
The caravan moved onward, the undead dragging their carcasses along, somehow keeping pace despite their stiffness. The sun crept low behind them, casting long shadows over the Gods’ Road. A few of the horses faltered, two of them snapping legs, forcing a shaking Ashhur to heal them. It seemed not even broken mounts could stop the march. They were near to Ashhur’s Bridge now, much too close to consider stopping.
The smoldering ruins of Paradise abruptly ended, replaced by fields of grass, dull green from the winter’s snow, and trees that were hearty despite their empty branches. The smoke that constantly seemed to envelop them all but disappeared. Patrick looked all around him, taking in his surroundings. After the desolation they had passed through over the last three days, he thought he’d never seen anything more beautiful.
Then the convoy came to a halt once more; only this time a tired grin stretched across Ashhur’s sallow face as he gazed upon the obstruction in the road. The wall of swaying undead parted, and the god stepped through them, trailed by his Wardens. Patrick shot Preston a look, and the two men followed.
The obstruction in the road was a group of what looked to be at least two hundred dark-skinned people. They were camped right in the center of the Gods’ Road, sitting around cookfires, wearing only their bloodstained smallclothes. Piles of mismatched armor, once worn by Karak’s soldiers, were stacked outside their small clusters. Their horses—only a handful of them—grazed lazily on the field of flattened grasses to the south of the road. The men of Ker all rose when they spotted the eastern-marching convoy, appearing pleased as they gazed up at Ashhur. Oddly enough, though they looked at the numerous undead with startled expressions, they didn’t withdraw in fear. It was almost as if seeing such horrors had become commonplace for them, which struck Patrick as particularly discouraging.
He scanned the assembly for a sign of his giant old friend, but Bardiya was nowhere to be seen.
Three of the Kerrians talked with the rest of their group and then approached Ashhur, meeting the deity halfway. All three dropped to their knees before him.
“Your Grace,” said the one in the middle, a tall youngster Patrick didn’t recognize. In fact, as he scanned the Kerrians’ faces in the dying sunlight, he realized he couldn’t identify any of them. Had it been so long since he’d traveled farther than the Black Spire? It didn’t seem like it.
Then again, the passage of time is fleeting when you don’t age.
He rode his stallion up to Ashhur’s side, and the three men of Ker turned their eyes to him. All three looked at him with suspicion, and two seemed repulsed by his appearance. Patrick frowned. It had been a long while since he’d experienced such a reaction; he’d almost forgotten how insulting it was. He wondered if they would have reacted the same way if Bardiya had been with them.
“Allay, Midoro, and Nusses—my children,” said Ashhur, thankfully drawing their attention away from Patrick. “Why are you blocking the road? We wish to pass.”
The one in the middle bowed low, his black skin gleaming in the waning light. “We were waiting for you, your Grace.”
“If you desire to join our ranks, I ask that you pack up your belongings, mount your steeds, and find a place among the column. The bridge bearing my name is but a few hours away, and we will ride through the night if need be to reach it.”
“Are you pursuing Karak, your Grace?” asked the one named Allay.
“Of course.”
“Then the bridge to the delta isn’t where you need to go.”
“Is that so?”
The one named Midoro, a bulky young man with a wide jaw and piercing hazel eyes, nodded. “It is, your Grace.” He pointed north, toward a lengthy backdrop of rolling hills that ended at a thick wood. “The god of the east went that way.”
Ashhur faced the direction in which Midoro pointed. His pale lips twisted into a grimace, and he shook his head.
“Of course,” the god said.
“Bardiya already ran off after him,” said Nusses. “He ordered the rest of us to go back home, but those you see here couldn’t bring ourselves to abandon him.”
“Wait,” said Patrick. “Bardiya is going after Karak on his own?”
Allay, Midoro, and Nusses nodded.
Ashhur seemed to mull over the men’s words for a moment before turning about and facing his legion of Wardens. “We will make camp here, with my children from Ker,” he said. “But only for an hour or two. Pass the message along to the others. There are no safe passages across the Rigon, north of the bridges, and the terrain is rocky and perilous. We will be greatly slowed.”
As the others dispersed, including the Turncloaks, Patrick trotted up to his deity. “I wish to go on ahead.”
“Do not worry for Bardiya,” said Ashhur. “My child knows what he is doing.”
“Are you sure of that, your Grace? What if he’s not in his right mind?”
&n
bsp; Ashhur tilted his head forward. “I have felt him in my thoughts, my son. He has recaptured the grace he thought he lost. He is as complete now as he has ever been.” A sad smile came across the deity’s face. “However, if you wish to forge ahead, you may. The undead will find the footing treacherous in the forest. Form a party with the Master Warden, and search out my brother’s army. But you will only look—not engage. Not until the full of my force is with you.”
Patrick almost opened his mouth to protest, but decided against it. “Very well, your Grace.” He dropped to a knee, bowing low.
Ashhur placed a hand on his head and then turned away, heading back toward the swaying undead and the short-lived camp that was now being raised between them. He lingered there for a long while, staring up at the northern wood. He knew his desire to rush to Bardiya’s aid was rash. It was selfish. He’s my friend. I don’t want to lose him too.
Gods knew he had lost enough already.
CHAPTER
38
Moira Elren was in a boiling rage as she raced toward Veldaren. The horrific images she’d seen the day before refused to leave her, a nightmare that haunted even her waking hours. She leaned forward in the saddle, gritted her teeth, and dug her heels into her horse’s flank, urging the animal to gallop faster. The pounding of hooves filled her ears as the Movers struggled to keep up with her frantic pace.
They exited the forest and entered the city from the south, passing by the Watchtower, the setting sun reflecting off its spire. Moira could see none of the City Watch roaming around the entrance to the tower, but that wasn’t surprising. In every village and shantytown they’d delivered food to during the long journey north, men of fighting age were a scarcity at best. She and her Movers had only seen a handful of roving bandits, and those disheveled men kept their distance when they caught sight of her four large companions and their steel. It seemed that in all of Neldar, only Catherine Brennan had rebelled against Karak’s demands and kept afloat what her husband’s family had built. The farther Moira traveled, the more her once seething hatred of the woman transformed into genuine respect.
Perhaps if Erznia had someone like Catherine leading them, I would not have found what I did.
She bore down, the drab gray buildings lining the South Road flashing by on either side. Tears of fury formed in her eyes as the memory crowded in.
The decision to visit Erznia had been an impulsive one. She hadn’t stepped foot in the settlement since she and Rachida had fled to Haven more than fifteen years ago, and the closer she drew to the hidden community within the trees, the more her excitement built. Even though the Moris had been subjected to great losses over the last couple years, those who remained had been like a surrogate family to her. To see Yenge, Alexander, Caleigh, Ebbe, Dimona, and Julian again would fill her heart with joy. To sit and share a drink with Oris, the scarred beast of a man with a heart of gold, would bring a smile to her face. She wanted nothing more than to relax, to recharge. Laurel Lawrence could wait a few days while she filled her belly with Yenge’s signature spiced lamb kabobs served over a bed of leeks and turnips . . . so long as the fall harvest had been plentiful.
Yet what awaited her there was not relief, but horror. The gate was smashed, and half the elegant cottages inside Erznia’s fifteen-foot-tall wall of pine and steel had been put to the torch. The causeway through the center of the hidden township was torn up, marred with the impressions of boot heels. The lavish gardens that had been a staple of each family’s land were wilted and dead, crushed by the now melted winter snows.
But worst of all were the bodies. They were everywhere, some lining the side of the road, most strung up upside down from trees and the roof overhangs of the homes that weren’t reduced to ashes. The corpses were stiff, their flesh parchment thin. Many of their stomachs had been opened, and the animals of the wild, let in through the smashed front gate, had picked through the remains. The upper torsos of those dangling were reduced to bone and sinew; many of their heads and arms had been chewed off altogether. It was a dreadful sight, and for a long moment Moira just sat there atop her horse while her Movers set out to investigate the scene, staring in disbelief at the carnage.
It wasn’t until Rodin persuaded her to ride toward the northwest corner of the settlement, where the estate of House Mori resided, that she broke from her stupor. Whereas other parts of the village featured a sort of macabre order, here was disarray. It looked like the cadavers remained as they were when they died, numerous arrow shafts jutting from their long-dead hides. Moira dismounted and examined the one closest to the estate’s entrance. It was female, with a faded yellow dress and a head of dark, curly hair gone pale from exposure to the elements. Her flesh was ravaged, half her face gnawed away by both time and beast, but it was clear who the woman had been. It was Yenge, Vulfram Mori’s widow, now joined with her husband in Afram, if such a place existed at all. Moira leaned closer, examining the arrows protruding from the dead woman’s hide: one in the neck, two in the flank, three jutting from the lower abdomen, one in the eye. The rest of the deceased had been pelted in much the same way, with just as great an abundance of arrows. Karak’s Army had come here, and for whatever reason had killed everyone.
Women and children, young and old—none were spared, not even the village’s Magister. It was a thousand times worse than the scene she had run across in Omnmount. Moira had thrown her head back to the heavens and screamed.
Suddenly, the need to find the last surviving Lawrence became all the more vital.
And now here she was, back in Veldaren, the city where she had spent much of her youth, looking for a single woman in a city of presumably thousands of females. She rode and rode, hoping to run across one of Karak’s representatives, no matter who he or she might be, she wanted to watch blood cascade from the wounds of one of the god’s faithful.
“Whoa, Moira, slow down!” shouted Danco from behind her. “We must gather ourselves!”
Reluctantly she pulled back on the reins and swiveled her steed around. The Movers had stopped riding and were now sitting atop their horses and gazing with apparent wonder at their surroundings. Although Port Lancaster was a sprawling city in and of itself, most of the buildings erected were humble wooden constructions that had ample space between them. Not so in Veldaren, a city designed by a god. It was the most densely populated location in all of Neldar, housing twice the residents Port Lancaster did, necessitating tightly packed buildings of gray stone that loomed over the road like ancient guardians in formation. And more had been added since Moira had last seen the place, which made simply riding down the road a study in claustrophobia.
Moira trotted up to her men, examining their expressions. Rodin was awestruck, looking around as if he felt small and didn’t like that feeling one bit. Tabar scowled, fingers restlessly tapping the hilt of his sword, and Danco laughed nervously. Gull, as usual, was expressionless. Even the fading sunlight reflecting in his gray-brown eyes did nothing to enliven him.
Rodin shook his head as Moira approached. “This is strange.”
“What is?” asked Moira.
“This city. So large and intimidating . . . so empty.”
“Empty, indeed,” said Tabar. “Where are the people?”
Moira turned about and glanced down the length of the South Road. There wasn’t even a hint of movement. She looked to the buildings abutting her—a mason’s shop on one side, a silversmith on the other—and saw that their shutters were open, the windows dark. It was only in the apartments above the shops that she caught sight of what might have been a pair of eyes, staring out from the blackness within. But those eyes quickly disappeared. Then she noticed that no smoke came from the many chimneys, even though it was cold. Again she thought of Omnmount, of the people hiding within the cabins in the border settlements.
“It’s the same as before,” she said. “They’re locked away. Afraid.”
“Of what?” asked Danco, his voice rising slightly.
Moira thought o
f the scene in Erznia.
“Of Karak’s faithful, I’d wager.” She cocked her head and grinned. “Have any of you seen the castle before?”
“No,” said Gull flatly.
Of course not. Stupid question. She pointed up the road, where the major artery split, one continuing farther north, the other veering to the right. “Well, the Castle of the Lion is right down there. You can see the towers over the buildings. What do you say we pay the honorable King Eldrich a visit? Perhaps he can tell us what we don’t know.”
“Perhaps,” Rodin said. “However, I hope this goes better than the last time we went to meet with a man of great importance.”
Moira sighed. “Me too.”
“I also think proceeding with caution instead of riding flat out would be best,” added Tabar.
They all agreed, clomping down the road in formation, with Moira and Rodin in front, Tabar and Danco in the rear, and Gull between them. Tabar expressed regret that Willer had died, but only because the energetic young Mover had always acted as their forward scout. Moira couldn’t help but shiver at how detached they were when it came to the loss of their friend.
The curve in the road neared, and Moira’s heart began to race. She didn’t know what to expect once they reached the castle, and that lack of knowing played evil games with her mind. She tensed, feeling the weight of her twin swords as they bounced against her hips. Her hands flexed inadvertently around her horse’s reins. She could barely feel the cold wind that blew against her face. A bird cawed overhead.
Blood Of Gods (Book 3) Page 46