Blood Of Gods (Book 3)

by David Dalglish

  “Your depravity shows in your weakness,” Bardiya proclaimed just as he began to bring his blade down, intending it to strike Karak’s head.

  “Not nearly so weak as you assume,” came a voice from behind him.

  Bardiya never had time to turn. Inky blackness enveloped his vision, blinding him. Something powerful wrapped itself around his forearms, stilling his downward thrust. He was then towed backward. The invasive force was strong; it felt like his bones were being crushed. Vigorous laughter filled the air.

  Dragged to his knees, Bardiya hurriedly lifted his blade, slicing through the wall of suffocating black that ensnared him. His head snapped around toward the source of the laughter, and there was Eveningstar, kneeling where he had fallen, hands raised. His cloak billowed around him; his eyes blazed red. Tendrils of shadow leapt from his fingertips, undulating as they raced through the air. Bardiya lifted his glowing sword, cutting through them. He gritted his teeth as he fought to stand.

  A furious pain then hit him, tracing him from shoulder to ribcage. His heart skipped one beat, then two, then began to hammer in his chest as if it were trying to escape. Glancing down, Bardiya saw Karak’s sword, simmering with dark flames, protruding from his bare chest. The flames had cauterized the wound, which was a smoking, pulpy line that began at his collarbone—the same one scarred by Ethir Ayers in the mangold grove so long ago. His bones had held then, but not this time. Not when the force of a deity fell upon him.

  In his hand, his own glowing sword faded until it became warped steel once more. His thoughts dulled, his vision became cloudy. Karak’s sword pulled out of him, leaving behind a dark, shadowy afterimage that slowly dispersed into nothingness. Bardiya teetered on his knees like a reed in the wind, and the pain that filled him washed away. He felt his heart stop beating—he actually felt it—and his eyes rolled until they stared at the bright afternoon sky. Then his eyes closed, his body pitched forward, and he struck the ground face first with a crunch.

  “Ashhur,” he breathed, the word inaudible to his own ears, “remember me.”

  Always and forever, my child.

  Bardiya rolled onto his back, body flopping as if in resistance to his every order. Karak and Jacob towered over him, staring down. No words on their lips. Just cold anger. It seemed strange to him, that anger. As he felt the life fading from him, felt the world collapsing inward, their anger inspired only pity in his motionless heart.

  Bardiya?

  The sky was opening. He saw golden light, felt his body separating, his presence expanding. Even the sound of Ashhur’s mighty, crestfallen bellow from miles away could do nothing to stifle his wonder.

  Do not grieve for me, my god. I understand now. It is so, so beau—

  CHAPTER

  41

  For a fleeting moment, the war almost ended.

  From his hiding spot within the trees on the other side of the river, Ahaesarus watched the giant Gorgoros battle Karak. Patrick DuTaureau, Preston the Turncloak, Warden Judah, Allay Loros, and the twelve others who had formed their advance scouting party gawked at the clash with eyes wide. It seemed none of them, Ahaesarus included, dared to so much as breathe.

  They saw the giant hit his knees, Karak stalk toward him, and Bardiya’s sword begin to glow. They looked on as the spiritual leader of Ker attacked with a vengeance, somehow beating the deity back with blow after vicious blow. They gaped as Karak fell to the ground and the giant lifted his radiant sword, preparing to strike it through the god’s skull, only to be yanked away by oily tendrils of shadow. Then they watched in horror as Karak sliced the giant through from shoulder to chest.

  Bardiya’s sword dimmed and he fell, his life extinguished.

  Not a moment later, Ashhur’s distant, mournful cry added to the miasma of despair.

  “No!” shouted Patrick. The deformed man flexed his massive arms, his sloped forehead crunching downward and wrinkling as tears streamed from his eyes. He reached for the sword strapped to his back and took a menacing step forward, ready to burst from their secluded spot and charge across the crumbling bridge. Ahaesarus grabbed his forearm and squeezed. Patrick’s head whipped around, spraying tears like mist from a waterfall.

  “Do not,” said Ahaesarus, trying to keep his tone even.

  Patrick slapped his hand away. “Don’t tell me what to do!” he shouted, his shoulders rising and falling with each rasping breath.

  “He’s . . . he’s gone,” whispered Allay. He ground his teeth together.

  “Listen to me,” Ahaesarus told them, stepping back so he could address them all. “There is nothing out there for you but death. You witnessed the giant’s fate. Don’t let that be yours as well.”

  “His name was Bardiya,” snapped Patrick. The malformed man then turned to the others. “We go now!” he shouted. “Let Karak try to defeat all of us at once!”

  Before Ahaesarus could say anything more, the other men lifted their swords to the sky and bellowed. Patrick tore away from the Master Warden, slamming through the brush like a raging bull. The others followed him, all but Warden Judah, who remained at Ahaesarus’s side. Judah glanced at him, uncertainty showing in his smooth features.

  “They cannot cross,” Ahaesarus told him before scowling and chasing after the men. It took mere moments to leave the cover of the forest, and the broad stretch of the cliff face stretched out before him. With his long strides, he easily caught up with the one at the back of the pack, the Turncloak Preston, snatching him by the armor and using his superior strength to toss the older man to the ground. Then another man went down, then another and another, rolling on the gravelly earth, their anger abated by surprise. Behind him, Judah further kicked the now prone men, keeping them down.

  Patrick was the first to step foot on the bridge. It was a wide structure that looked to be made of solid granite and sandstone, but it was no longer stable. Half of its northern face had crumbled, raining dust and debris. At the middle section, large chunks of the earthen bridge had already fallen, leaving behind a dangerously sloped surface that threatened to drop the charging men directly into the rapids below. The pursuers ran with their swords, axes, and spears held high, wounded animal cries roaring from their throats, oblivious to the threat.

  Ahaesarus came to a skidding stop at the edge of the bridge. Only five had rushed the crumbling structure; everyone else had been successfully thwarted. Of the five who had made it, only one now dashed without care—Midoro, one of the Kerrians. The others seemed to have lost confidence in their spur-of-the-moment attack. Patrick, in particular, was teetering back and forth, his sword resheathed, his uneven legs spread wide as the bridge shuddered beneath him.

  From the other side of the river came the sound of laughter.

  The Master Warden lifted his gaze. Karak and his prophet stood in front of the giant Gorgoros’s corpse, and it was the god who laughed. Karak’s eyes blazed gold, Velixar’s red. Though the deity stood twice as tall as the First Man of Dezrel, to Ahaesarus, in that moment, the human was much more frightening.

  They outstretched their arms and began chanting. The uneven bridge began to tremble.

  “All of you, to me!” Ahaesarus shouted, dread filling him. “Quickly now, come! There isn’t time!”

  Patrick’s panic-filled eyes found his, and the hunchback pivoted on the balls of his feet, his uneven gait carrying him back across the failing structure. A great creak sounded, followed by a horrific splintering. Huge sections of the bridge broke off, plummeting seventy feet and crashing into the river, shattering as they struck the rapid’s jagged rocks. Allay Loros was the first to reach safety, followed by another of the Turncloaks, a boy named Tristan, and then a slender, brown-haired youth named Tosh. Patrick, with his uneven stride, was still twenty feet away; Midoro had passed him and was now halfway across, not slowing down, slip-sliding along the pitched section of bridge while still wailing his battle cry.

  With a final, violent crack, the bridge fully collapsed. In the distance, Midoro tumbled alon
g with heavy sections of granite, his ax spinning in the air while he toppled, head over heels, like a leaf in autumn.

  Closer to Ahaesarus, not ten feet away, Patrick scuttled along the rapidly dropping slope, eyes wide with terror, his misshapen face scrunched. The only sound was the terrible shattering of the bridge. Patrick leapt forward, powerful arms outstretched, thick hands grasping at air. Without thinking, Ahaesarus reached for the falling man. Their palms met, Patrick’s fingers wrapping around Ahaesarus’s with such strength that it felt like the Master Warden’s bones would be crushed.

  The bridge completely fragmented, coming fully detached from the side of the cliff. Patrick fell along with it. Ahaesarus held on for dear life, Patrick’s weight wrenching and unbearable. The Master Warden dropped to his knees, then flat on his chest, his shoulders stretched to their limit. Patrick’s momentum caused him to swing inward and slam against the rock face, sending a jolt down Ahaesarus’s spine. He cried out in anguish as DuTaureau dangled in his grasp. Patrick’s eyes were downcast, as were Ahaesarus’s, watching the remnants of the bridge crash into the violently flowing Rigon.

  Hands were on him then, many of them, tugging on Ahaesarus’s clothes, pulling him backward. Sharp stones and debris cut into his stomach as he was dragged across the ground, but his grip on Patrick’s hand remained true. Finally, the others succeeded in yanking Ahaesarus back far enough that the hunchback could clutch the many raised stones, pulling himself up and onto the ledge. When he finally reached safety, Patrick collapsed on his side and panted. Ahaesarus shook his head and closed his eyes, exhausted.

  “Ahaesarus,” came Judah’s voice. “We need to leave.”

  Ahaesarus glanced up at his fellow Warden and saw him gazing with a locked jaw over the chasm’s now empty span. The Master Warden rolled over to look, his every joint smarting. Karak had stepped back, and the First Man now stood at the edge of the opposite ledge, his cloak fluttering in the cold breeze. It was difficult to tell from seven hundred feet away, but he suspected Velixar was smiling.

  “Ahaesarus, the great teacher of man,” Velixar hollered, his voice echoing across the chasm. “Did you truly believe you and Ashhur’s pet freak could dare Karak’s might?” There was laughter in his tone as he pointed at Bardiya’s massive corpse. “You witnessed the fate of the last challenger.”

  “I’ll fucking kill him,” Patrick uttered, still on his stomach and panting. There was no strength behind his words.

  “Not now,” Ahaesarus said as Karak’s prophet raised his hands. “Run,” he told the rest of his allies. “All of you, run!”

  Ahaesarus scampered to his feet, heaving Patrick up and along with him as he trailed after those dashing back into the forest. He didn’t turn around—not when he heard the First Man chanting, not when he felt a scorching heat on his back. He focused on putting one foot in front of the other, hoping beyond hope that Patrick’s stumpy legs could keep pace with his much longer ones.

  They dove into the surrounding trees just as the entirety of the cliff face went up in a blaze of purple and black flame. Those flames licked above Ahaesarus’s head as he dropped to the ground and tumbled down a slight decline. Whipping tendrils of living shadow snapped all around him even as he rolled, their texture solid and oily when they lapped against his bare flesh.

  The ground dropped out from beneath him, and Ahaesarus fell. He collided with the root-covered ground hard, an oomph leaving his lips as the wind was knocked from his lungs. Patrick landed right beside him, his flailing right arm striking him directly on the chest. The force of the blow was made all the more painful by the coldness of the day. Ahaesarus lay there, clutching his chest and moaning, until the ache diminished.

  When he lifted his head and glanced about, he saw they had landed in a ravine. The odd purple flames still licked at the air fifteen feet above their heads. All members of the scouting party save Midoro were present, tending their various injuries. The only one that seemed not to be hurt was Preston. The old Turncloak sat with his back against a tree, stroking his thick gray beard as if deep in thought. Ahaesarus thought of the charge toward the bridge, how Preston had been the last in line and had gone down rather easily when Ahaesarus grabbed him. It was as if he’d been stalling on purpose. That one knows better than to challenge a god. Seems he should dispense some of that knowledge to his friends.

  DuTaureau shook his head while he gently dabbed at a deep gash in his elbow. “I’m sorry, Ahaesarus,” he said without looking up. He looked so miserable, with his tear-soaked cheeks and gnashing teeth, that Ahaesarus couldn’t stay upset.

  “I understand,” Ahaesarus said.

  Patrick’s eyes flitted upward, staring at the Master Warden from under his distended brow. “You do?”

  “I do. However, do not be so foolish again. We cannot afford to lose you.”

  At that, Patrick laughed grimly. “So say you.”

  “Yes, so say I. You are the greatest of Ashhur’s defenders. Our god cannot afford to lose his ultimate warrior because of a need for vengeance.”

  “You watched him die too, Ahaesarus,” said Patrick, looking away. “He was my friend.”

  “He was. And his loss is painful to all, especially Ashhur. However, he played his part well. If not for the First Man, he might have killed a god. So go ahead, weep for Bardiya Gorgoros as you wish. Even Ashhur has shown his sorrow on this day. However, know that the giant now awaits us all in the Golden Forever. In some ways, he is lucky. His pain is over. Ours, I fear, is just beginning.”

  “What a wonderful thought,” said Patrick, a hint of a wry smile playing on his lips.

  Judah, who had been leaning against the earthen wall of the ravine, glanced up at the sputtering flames above them and then looked to Ahaesarus. “What do we do now?”

  Ahaesarus leaned back on his hands and thought. At Patrick’s insistence, Ashhur had sent the party ahead of the bulk of his force, for their progress was indeed slowed, the undead and horses having a difficult time negotiating northeastern Paradise’s harsh forest terrain.

  “Now, we return to Ashhur,” he said. “We will follow the river and look for a better spot to cross as we walk.

  “What then?” asked Tosh. The other youngster, Tristan, rolled his eyes as if the answer were obvious.

  “Then we go after them,” Patrick said, anger returning to his tenor. “Ashhur will face his brother and make him pay for what he’s done. There’s no stopping what has begun. There will be justice, or there will be death. Perhaps even the heavens will fall.”

  Ahaesarus shivered, though he couldn’t have said it better himself.

  CHAPTER

  42

  That coldhearted cunt,” Turock grumbled. The older spellcaster bounced with each of his horse’s strides, his mane of wavy red-blond hair bobbing on his shoulders. He clutched his pointed green hat in his lap, twisting it as if trying to squeeze the last drop of juice from a lemon. “She has my children in there! How dare she keep them away from me? Icy little bitch. It probably snows when she pisses. I’m glad my wife doesn’t take after her.”

  Rachida Gemcroft rolled her eyes and shook her head, irritated. She had heard this same rant, over and over again, during the five days since they’d been denied entrance into Mordeina.

  Turock continued his tirade while Quester Billings trotted up on the other side of her, grinning. “You want me to silence him?”

  “Heard that,” said Turock, glaring over at the handsome young sellsword. “I’d like to see you try. You don’t want to know what happened to the last man who trifled with me.”

  “Testy, aren’t we?” declared Pox Jon, who rode to Quester’s right.

  Turock glowered.

  “Enough, all of you,” Rachida said. “It’s like riding with children.”

  She snapped the reins, forcing her steed up to a canter. Her frustration boiled over, and she let out a long groan. Even imagining shoving a shank into Peytr’s groin did nothing to lift her mood.

  They had ta
ken a circuitous route to Mordeina from Drake, sticking close to the mountain chain bordering the Gihon and heading inland only when the forest of Dezerea came within view. In all, the trip had taken thirteen days, and though the spellcasters’ gemstones had kept them well fed and the weather grew warmer, they still needed to sleep out in the elements, and the anticipation of what lay ahead of them had everyone on edge.

  Yet that angst had not been justified, for when they arrived at the settlement itself, they found Mordeina surrounded by a gigantic double wall that put the one around Port Lancaster to shame. Even Turock was awestruck, staring up at the sixty-foot-tall wall of gray stone, and he was speechless for the first time since the journey started. Instead of Karak’s Army, they found an empty valley whose grass and trees, now bare due to the early thaw, were brown and dead. Instead of warfare, they found silence. Instead of being greeted as saviors, the people behind the wall turned them away.

  No matter what Rachida told the black-haired man and the rather short Warden who had confronted her on the other side of the portcullis, they would not let her group inside. Even when Turock came forward, confident he would be able to sway the man he called Howard to open the gates, they were greeted with indifference.

  “The men you travel with are emblazoned with Karak’s sigil,” Howard had told them, and the short Warden nodded in agreement. “After what our people have gone through, the sight would not be a welcomed one.”

  No promise to strip the men of their armor would change their minds. The insults and threats Turock had lashed them with certainly hadn’t helped either. And so they had ridden away from the settlement, frustration steadily progressing through their ranks. Only Talon Blackwolfe and the other two hundred of Karak’s soldiers that had joined their cause up north kept a level head throughout the ordeal.