Blood Of Gods (Book 3)

by David Dalglish

  “The spells—they aren’t strong enough!” hollered Kindren, launching a weak salvo of energy at the beast.

  “I know!” Aully said.

  The creature rumbled to the right, using its tusks to knock men off their horses. No more arrows fell toward it—the elves had likely exhausted their supply—and the magical attacks were pathetic. The spellcasters were growing tired. Aully herself was drained almost to the point of collapsing. Finally, when she uttered the words and flicked her fingers, nothing happened. Her magic was gone.

  Now unimpeded, the demon turned about and hurtled toward them. The throng of elves behind Aully shuffled backward. Screams filled the air as a few of them backed up too far, plummeting off the edge of the cliff, their bodies crunching when they hit the rocks below. The soldiers on horses, who had been attacking the beast, turned tail and fled. The demon’s eyes were like liquid fire, growing larger by the second, radiating both hatred and hunger. Aully grabbed Kindren and turned, running toward the lip of the cliff, searching for her mother. Lady Audrianna gathered the two youths in her embrace, and all three knelt down on the uneven, rocky soil.

  “Goddess above,” said Aully’s mother, “we give our lives to you, to protect and hold once we reach your side.”

  “I love you all,” Aully said.

  Kindren squeezed her tight. “Always and forever.”

  The demon howled, sounding much too close, and though Aully didn’t want to look, she did anyway. The beast veered to the side, a rope around its neck. Aully’s eyes followed the length of the rope, which ended in the hand of brave Ceredon, standing atop a galloping horse. The elf then jumped, dangling by the rope, holding on for dear life as the demon swung its head and him along with it. The beast skidded to a halt, the hail of rock and other earthen fragments bombarding the cowering elves as its claws dug into the ground. The demon swiped at Ceredon, knocking him around like a pendulum, until the rope broke and the elf fell to the ground. Defiant, he scampered back to his feet, ripped the shortsword the human woman had given him from his belt, and hurled it at the beast. The sword ricocheted harmlessly off the creature’s snout.

  “Darakken!” the elf shouted, shaking an angry fist at the beast. “You want a meal, you devour me!”

  The demon reared back, its tusks retracting once more, and then a mouth filled with giant teeth lurched toward the lone, defiant elf.

  Aully tore away from Kindren and ran, knowing she would never get there in time, knowing there was nothing she could do even if she did. Kindren tackled her from behind.

  “Ceredon, no!” she screamed.

  Ceredon dropped to his knees, his head back as the demon’s maw rapidly descended on him. He couldn’t help but smile. It hadn’t mattered what anyone had done, how brave any of the soldiers had been in defending their lives. It didn’t matter how much magic they threw at the beast, how many arrows plinked against its hide. In the end, it was Boris Marchant’s version of the story of how the evil thing was defeated before that told him all he needed to know. Because of that, he finally understood the true meaning behind the words Celestia had whispered to him in Dezerea. Become the mountain.

  A mountain is resilient. A mountain stands unmoving and accepts whatever abuse nature brings upon it without complaint. A mountain offers up its surface as a sacrifice for all the creatures that call it home.

  The descent of Darakken ceased.

  The ground rumbled beneath Ceredon’s knees, shaking him to the core, but he didn’t move. He kept his gaze up, staring at the ancient demon as its fiery red eyes widened. It huffed, casting down a gust of breath that reeked of smoke and rotten meat. The thing then reared up on its hind legs, pawing at its chest.

  Ceredon looked on in astonishment as the ground rose up around the beast, swallowing its hooves, its reverse-jointed knees. The earth rumbled once more, and Ceredon finally scurried backward as lances of stone burst from the ground, pointed tips driving into the demon’s hide, shattering its scales, making it bleed. Demon’s blood, Ceredon thought as he put more distance between himself and the demon. Elf’s blood.

  Spires continued to break out of the soil. One lanced Darakken’s shoulder. One broke through its clawed hand and exited the other side before embedding in its neck. One punctured its back, extending outward until it punched through the creature’s neck as well. The demon struggled, gurgling in pain, but only succeeded in thrusting the earthen spears deeper into its body.

  Soon, at least a hundred of those granite lances locked the demon in place, bent upright. The blood continued to gush from each and every wound, but the flow slowed, the blood seeming to harden as it rolled over its scales, as if it were turning to mud, then clay, then solid granite. Its struggles diminished as well, and there was an audible creak each time a limb bent. The area beneath the demon’s scales, where its heart should have been, began to glow, and Ceredon swore he saw the darkened outline of a book in the center of the light. That light was soon covered over by a thick glob of soil-like blood that oozed from the demon’s throat.

  Darakken’s scales slowly changed color, transforming from green-black and shimmering to a deep red and then to a pale shade of brown. Ceredon looked on in awe as those same scales seemed to calcify, nodules rising on them, covering them over, filling in the gaps between them. The thing was turning to stone before his eyes.

  Become the mountain, indeed.

  The earth swallowed the demon from the bottom up, snaking over the stone spires, congealing, becoming solid. The last thing Ceredon saw of the beast was its eye, the red now faded, as it rolled and stared down at him in both fear and hatred. Finally, that too was covered over by the upward cascade of dirt, clay, and stone.

  Darakken was no more.

  “That . . . how did you do that?” Ceredon heard the spellcaster named Turock ask.

  Ceredon stood in front of what was now a stony hillock. The thing took up much of the clearing, closing his view of the forest behind. The soldiers who had survived the demon’s assault rounded the massive obstruction, some on horseback, most on foot, limping. Rachida, a woman Ceredon had met once long ago when Karak’s First Families visited Quellasar, rode elegantly into view. He nodded to her, and she nodded back before going about taking measure of her losses. Ceredon lifted his gaze to the sky, tears welling up. He faced north, toward Celestia’s hidden star, and whispered, “Thank you.”

  The deed is not yet done. Her voice was an enraged whisper on the wind. Ceredon whirled around and faced the mob of Stonewood Dezren that lingered by the cliff’s edge. All their eyes were on the heavens, their expressions of relief washing away, replaced by confusion. Even Aully, Kindren, and Lady Audrianna, who had been striding toward him, stopped and stared. Had they heard the voice as well? Was that possible?

  My children have disappointed me, the goddess said, and sure enough the Dezren did hear, for many of them fell to their knees, breathing in panicked breaths. You were blessed with lives longer than any other mortal beings, and yet those lives were squandered by hatred and war. Beauty was handed to you, and yet it was not enough. All you had was bartered to a childish god, for greed, for fleeting power and shallow pride. Such immaturity, such ugliness. I have stood aside and allowed you to err, but no longer. Your sins shall not be tolerated.

  The elves surged forward, their pleading voices rising to the heavens, while the humans stood around and gawked at the scene, confused. Ceredon lowered his eyes and saw one elf standing out among the rest. For a moment, Ceredon was taken aback—the elf looked like a thinner, younger version of Cleotis Meln. The elf raised his hands to the sky.

  “You owe us!” he shouted. “It was you who turned your back on us!”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Ceredon saw Aully glaring at the elf, her hands curled into fists.

  The wind blew silently for a moment before Celestia spoke once more.

  You were to be the wardens of humanity. Her voice came from all around, on the wind and in the stillness between, and it was laced with fu
ry. And when your leaders refused, I accepted your choice. I let you be, with two simple doctrines: Protect the beauty of this world, and remain impartial in the affairs of man. Both have been broken, and those who have broken them, in all the lands you call home, shall be punished. No longer will you know beauty. No longer will your lives be long. You will only know an undying hunger, an empty pit in your souls where my love once resided. You will always remember all that you once had, and the knowledge that it is no longer yours will drive you mad.

  Some of the gathered elves began weeping. Others shouted angry decrees at the heavens. Ceredon pivoted on his feet and walked toward Aullienna, gathering the young princess in his arms, holding her head to his chest. Kindren was soon there as well, followed by Aully’s mother. The four of them stood there amid the lament and anger, holding each other silently.

  Vile children of mine, I revoke my love. Take my curse instead.

  The land filled with the screams of a thousand voices. Ceredon, Aully, Kindren, and Lady Audrianna separated, looking all around them. One out of every two elves had dropped to the ground, where all of them writhed in pain. Among them was the elf who looked so much like Cleotis Meln. Their bodies contorted, their teeth bared. It looked as if there was another entity beneath their flesh, fighting to get out. Ceredon backed away from them, toward the hillock that had once been a demon, dragging the three frightened Dezren with him.

  “Celestia, what is this?” he whispered.

  He looked to the sky and saw a dark cloud approaching. It moved faster than any cloud he had ever seen before, churning and bulging, growing bigger and bigger on the horizon. He dragged Aully and the others a few steps onto the hill, keeping his eyes up, and as it drew nearer, he realized that what he saw was hundreds of winged horses, flying in formation, descending as they approached.

  You faithful few, accept my sanctuary.

  “Aully!” he shouted. “Kindren, Lady Audrianna, all of you who haven’t fallen, come!”

  Ceredon raced up the rocky side of the steep hillock, the others on his heels. The winged horses were so close now that he could see the mist from their noses when they exhaled. He continued to climb, stumbling over loose stones, holding tight to Aully’s hand just in case she fell. The first of the horses broke away from the rest, sailing over his head, soaring toward the other side of the knoll, and pivoting in midair. It was a she, and she landed on the broad, flat surface at the top of the hillock, whinnying and snorting and kicking her hooves. Another of the winged horses landed just behind her.

  Ceredon raced for the mare, dragging Aully behind him. The horse bent her front legs, lowering herself so they could climb on her back.

  “Two on each horse!” he shouted to the throng of elves as they crested the hillock’s short peak. More and more winged horses landed while the rest circled up above, waiting for space atop the narrow crest. Ceredon helped Aully onto the horse’s back and then climbed on in front of her. “Hold on to me tight,” he told her. He glanced over at Kindren, who was helping Lady Audrianna climb atop another of the majestic, winged beasts. The boy prince looked at him, and he dipped his head. “She will be safe,” Ceredon told him.

  Their horse rose to her feet and galloped along the ridge. Then, she took to the air, her massive wings flapping. Wind blew through Ceredon’s hair; Aully’s arms squeezed his waist. The horse banked low and to the side, turning toward the east, and when she did so, Ceredon gaped in both horror and wonder at the scene down below. Elf by elf, winged horse by winged horse, the Dezren took to the sky behind him. The human soldiers had tried to scamper up the side of the hillock, but it was too steep, and they were slow, weighed down by their armor. The cursed elves had risen. Their skin was gray, their faces hideous, and they attacked the humans with a sort of bloodlust that made Ceredon’s skin crawl. Men screamed, swords clashed, blood spilled. Once more violence had come to Dezrel.

  The winged horse pitched back to level out, and thankfully Ceredon could no longer see what was happening below. Soon, even the sound of the clash faded away as they soared higher and higher, rising above Stonewood Forest and the demolished city within the trees. He took in all he saw, and though the wind was freezing this high up, he barely felt it, for what filled his vision was beautiful.

  “Where’s Kindren?” Aully shouted, still pressed against his back.

  “Right behind us,” Ceredon called out over his shoulder. “With your mother.”

  “And where are we going?”

  “Home.” He couldn’t say where they’d find it, but he knew that’s where they were going.

  CHAPTER

  50

  Velixar lay on his side, his blood leaking away as Ashhur towered above. Scarlet drops caught fire on the god’s shimmering blade. He couldn’t begin to interpret Ashhur’s stare. Was it anger? Regret? Or detachment, the curiosity of one who’d stepped on a strange insect?

  All around them, those who had been fighting for Dezrel’s soul gawked.

  “You,” Velixar gasped, and despite his grievous wound he tried crawling toward his former god. If only his power had been stronger. If only he hadn’t pushed his limits, if only his human body weren’t so pathetically weak. “You won’t . . . ”

  The ruins of the castle shifted, followed by the boom of heavy footsteps that shook the ground. Ashhur looked away and lifted his sword. Velixar heard Ashhur sigh, and he knew Karak had finally emerged from the wreckage.

  “You should not have come,” said Karak.

  Ashhur’s mouth twitched, the faintest hint of a smile on his face.

  “You knew I would,” Ashhur said. “This conflict must end.”

  It was pandemonium as those who had been battling in the gods’ names fled.

  Karak was just beyond Velixar’s sight, and he turned his head to look. His god wore his brilliant armor; his short, dark hair was blown back by a breeze, and he held his fiery blade in both hands. His armor was stained with soot and clay, and a grim smile played across his face, eagerness in his eyes that burned greater than his sword. This battle, Velixar realized, both had been yearning to revisit since their fight in Haven ended in a draw. Damn the followers and armies and supplies and movements. There would be no retreat this time. Their blades were drawn, their power naked. Here they would fight until one of them would forever die.

  Velixar’s fingers pressed against the blood-soaked cobbles, and he begged for strength. Only the magic of the ancient beast within him kept him alive, kept his rent body together, kept the blood pumping through severed veins. The pendant that had singed his chest pulsed with energy. It was agony, and took great concentration, but he would not die. Not yet. Before he passed, he would see a victor. The damn world owed him that much.

  “What happened to the paradise we were to create?” Karak asked as he braced his back leg for a lunge. “What happened to the perfection we swore would blossom? We watched worlds burn. Ours was to be different. Ours was to be better. How did our creations fail us so?”

  Ashhur settled low, readying his blade, preparing for the charge.

  “They never failed us,” he said. “Not as much as we failed them, as you failed them.”

  Karak’s smile spread full, and it was a look Velixar hardly recognized. His god seemed . . . crazed. Feverish. “You are right,” his deity said. “We gave them their free will. Knowing their imperfections. Knowing their sin. Every murder, every blasphemy, it is on our heads. It is our failure, our greatest failure, and once your body breaks before me, I will sweep across this land correcting it.”

  Ashhur looked horrified.

  “You would strip them of their will? Their choices? Their very souls? This conflict was your doing, not theirs.”

  The fire on Karak’s blade burned all the greater.

  “You still don’t understand?” he asked. “Life is chaos. Creation is stubborn and wild. There is only one way to obtain true order. Only one way to obtain true justice, yet you are too blind to see it. Emptiness, my brother. Pure, quiet, bliss
ful emptiness. We were doomed the moment we stepped foot on this land and sought to create anything other than monuments to ourselves. Proud gods are we, but we must be prouder still. We must cast off these inferior beings, cast off our need for their love, our yearning for them to live and grow and understand things they will never truly comprehend. They will only know suffering, misery, and confusion before they succumb to their graves. You cannot cast dirt to the stars and expect it to understand the vastness, and that is all these humans are, the dust beneath our feet. Let me help you before it is too late. Before these wretched things, by their very existence, result in the death of a god.”

  Velixar was in too much agony to understand it, his god’s words flowing over him like a frozen wind, their meaning horrifying yet so simple, so frighteningly believable, just like the vision of a burning, peaceful world Karak had shown him. Looking to Ashhur, he thought there was no way another perfect being could hear and not agree. What counter could Karak’s brother offer? What wisdom could he refute it with? The god stood still as a statue before the ruins of the castle as Karak waited for an answer. And when it came, it came with tears in Ashhur’s eyes.

  “No,” he said, his deep voice but a whisper.

  “Why?” Karak asked, not hiding his frustration and disappointment.

  “Because I love them. And I will die to save them.”

  Ashhur leapt forward. Velixar craned his neck to watch, his dying breaths stolen away. Ashhur’s sword swung, Karak blocked, and at their connection the very ground shook from the shock wave, further toppling the castle’s ruins. The massive throng of terrified onlookers shrieked. A mindless roar rumbled from Karak’s throat as he pushed back, muscles bulging, the world beneath him breaking from the strain. At last Ashhur relented, only to swing again. Sword striking, sword blocking, each became a blur, light and fire twirling, mixing. A chunk of the wall still standing was crushed beneath the might of their struggle. Suddenly it was a display Velixar no longer felt worthy to witness, and casting his eyes to the bloodstained cobbles beneath him he crawled, dragging his lower half behind him. He cried out in pain as he lurched over the remnants of one of the onyx lions that had guarded the castle portcullis. He had to be closer. What power he had left, he wished to give to his god. No matter what, Ashhur could not win. Not after all he, Velixar, had given . . . all he’d lost.