Blood Of Gods (Book 3)

by David Dalglish

  The elf was calling his brethren to him.

  Patrick sidestepped around the three bodies at his feet, sidling up to Preston. The old soldier had gathered his wits; the only signs of his sorrow were the clean trails that snaked down his bloodied cheeks.

  “Be wary,” Patrick said out of the corner of his mouth, tilting his head in the elf’s direction.

  Preston understood. His hand fell to the handle of his sheathed sword. The other Turncloaks followed his lead.

  The elves continued to gather a few feet from where the anguished soldier of Karak wailed. Patrick did a quick count, coming up with forty-three. The colossal elf in black gathered the others around, shouting in their queer tongue. When that was finished, the elves sheathed their swords and slung their bows over their backs. They began to cross the blood-splattered square, only to stop a moment later. It appeared as if each of their heads looked up to the sky at once.

  A whisper on the wind reached Patrick’s ears, nearly undecipherable. Though he couldn’t make out the words, it was obviously the goddess speaking once more, her voice soft and snipped and threatening.

  The elves fell to their knees. Their eyes bulged, and their heads were thrown back. Their mouths opened as if to scream, but no sound came out. Patrick inched forward, Preston and the surviving Turncloaks following. Patrick couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The elves’ flesh bubbled and warped, the color darkening to a slate gray. Their eyes retreated into their sockets, and their brows distended. Each of them lurched forward, gagging on an unseen blockage, their lips pulling back, their incisors growing slightly larger. They looked dangerous, feral. Then they all collapsed and writhed there for a moment, until they all fell still.

  “What in the name of the unholy?” whispered Preston.

  The scene had drawn a crowd around Patrick, blocking his vision and making him wary of the wall of human flesh that closed him in. He might not have been stunted, but with his hunched back and warped spine, he was shorter than most, and he had to hop up to see what was happening. He heard the crowd gasp before it started to back away. Frustrated, he and his remaining Turncloaks elbowed their way through the mass of bodies, seeking the front.

  When they reached open air, they saw each of the elves standing and staring at their hands. They no longer looked like elves. Instead of looking noble, they seemed savage, their skin covered with pocks and scars. The large one with the black armor saw Patrick and jolted his head forward, snapping at him. Patrick jumped backward and yelped, his hand instinctively reaching for Winterbone.

  The twisted elf’s eyes lost their focus. His head lifted, seemingly glaring at each and every face that stared back at him. Behind him, his brethren did the same. They grunted and hissed. A few of them tried to form words, but their tongues tangled in their mouths.

  Then, suddenly, the large one’s head swung around. He gawked stupidly toward the demolished castle, until those deep-set eyes narrowed. A primordial scream left his mouth, and the former elf took off running, drawing those two black swords from his back. His brethren gaped at each other stupidly before they started to run as well.

  They were heading for the wailing man, the one with the dead, milky eye.

  Patrick didn’t know why he felt inclined to do what he did next. “No!” he shouted, and then took off, grabbing hold of Preston’s sleeve on the way by, tugging the old soldier along. Patrick ran as fast as his uneven legs could carry him, heading diagonally toward the kneeling man. Somehow he kept pace with the sprinting feral elf. He reached back and tugged Winterbone loose, his breath coming in short, painful rasps.

  The kneeling man’s head whirled around just as the feral elf drew close to him. The man fell back on his hands, groping on the ground beside him for something, but he wasn’t quick enough. A pair of black, glinting blades cut through the air.

  Patrick dove forward and lunged with Winterbone. The feral elf’s swords crashed into his with a hollow clang. The elf’s strength was immense, but somehow, even though pain spiked into his back, Patrick’s powerful arms didn’t yield an inch. Their blades remained locked, just a whisper away from the kneeling man’s face.

  The man’s good eye looked from Patrick to the elf and then back again. Patrick took a deep breath and brought his arms up with as much force as he could. The large elf was knocked backward, giving Jacob Eveningstar’s protector a chance to roll out of harm’s way. The other deformed elves closed in from behind, brandishing their own weapons and squealing like rabid animals. Patrick stepped back and hunkered down, preparing to be rammed, preparing to die.

  Then the shouting began. Preston barked orders, inspiring those who’d been gawking to snap into action. A large crowd of humans collided with the feral elves, battering them with swords and axes, shoving them over the ruins of the castle wall. Patrick saw two of the odd wrapped women among the fray, their wrappings soaked with blood, slashing at the new enemy in their midst as if they could erase all the knowledge that their god was gone by simply destroying these primitive beasts. It was a vicious spectacle, and his watching of it almost ended him.

  So focused was he on the brutality of his fellow humans that he almost didn’t see the large elf come at him from the side. At the last moment he bent backward, and two black swords sliced across the space he’d once occupied. The perverse elf roared at him and threw a fist, catching him full in the face. His nose snapped to the side, blood pouring from his nostrils. Patrick staggered, having to jab Winterbone against the cobbles to keep from falling.

  The beastly thing was on him again a second later, hacking and slashing with wild abandon. It fought with no skill, only pure rage, beating Patrick back. Another three of its mates, apparently having escaped death at the hands of the riotous mob, joined the large elf’s side. All four of them bore down on Patrick. With his eyes watering from his broken nose and his limbs gone weary, it was all Patrick could do to hold Winterbone up. Blades scraped his armor and pierced his flesh.

  One of the feral elves to his left then howled as the tip of a colossal sword exited his chest. The thing’s eyes bulged from his sockets and he looked down at the protruding blade as if in disbelief. In a single, brutal motion, the sword then flashed up, tearing the dark elf up through the bottom of his neck. The dead elf was knocked to the side. In its place stood the man who’d been kneeling, his horned helm back atop his head, his ample sword held firmly in both hands. The man’s good eye sparkled through his visor, and he nodded curtly before hurtling himself toward two of the elves, his sword strikes measured and deadly.

  The larger of the feral elves, the one in the black armor, remained fixated on Patrick. Sparks were flying in all directions as his two swords met Winterbone again and again. The elf was much larger than him, and despite his feat of strength earlier, he knew he couldn’t keep up this fight for long. The elf finally threw him off balance, thrusting with one sword, a move that Patrick lifted Winterbone to counter. The other sword then slipped beneath his raised hands. The blade clanged off the bottom of Patrick’s breastplate and plunged easily into his belly. Patrick lurched forward as pain overwhelmed him. The feral elf slammed his forehead into Patrick’s. His head snapped back and he collapsed. The blade slid out of him as he fell. Patrick felt blood gush from the wound, drenching his crotch and thighs.

  The feral thing hovered over him, cackling in an odd, callous way. The sun glimmered over his black scale armor as he held both swords out to his sides, the blades dripping with Patrick’s blood. The elf’s muscles tensed as he prepared to strike. Patrick showed the beast his neck, hoping it would be quick. The twisted elf then paused for some reason, his head tilting to the side. It didn’t stop tilting until the head came loose from the neck and tumbled over his shoulder. The body fell, collapsing next to Patrick on the gore-stained cobbles with a sickening splat. The elf’s swords clattered away.

  Patrick looked up at the gigantic image of a god looming above him, a halo of light shimmering around its body. The figure then leaned on a sword an
d crouched down beside Patrick, his silky golden hair just as soaked with blood as everything else in this godsforsaken place. Patrick looked into those intense blue eyes and laughed, causing a coughing fit to overtake him. That was no god.

  “Ahaesarus,” he said between painful chuckles. “You made it.”

  “Barely,” the Master Warden said.

  “Couldn’t you see he was going to kill me? I would think you’d have at least given me that before you cut off his head.”

  Ahaesarus patted him on the shoulder. “Sorry. Today was not your day to die, Patrick. After what just happened, you are needed.”

  “Too bad I’m gutted.”

  The Warden laid down his sword and rubbed his hands together. “Let us see what we can do about that.”

  Another form then appeared above him, blocking the sun. Patrick raised his eyes and saw the man with one eye. His sword was sheathed, the horned helm wedged beneath his arm. The man gazed down at him, his lips pursed.

  “You saved my life,” he said coldly. “For that I am thankful.”

  Patrick went to reply, only the man turned away before he could say anything. He picked up the twisted elf’s two black swords and headed toward a small gathering of soldiers without another word.

  “Charming fellow,” Patrick said.

  “He is one of Karak’s most faithful,” said Ahaesarus, watching the man as he and his mates wandered away. “It drips off him.”

  “Good for him,” Patrick said. His vision began to get blurry. “But say, Ahaesarus, did you come to save me or let me slowly die?”

  The Master Warden chuckled and placed his hands on Patrick’s midsection. “To tell you the truth, I am not certain this will work,” he said, his eyes peering at the spot where the gods had warred.

  “Well try, anyway, or let me go.”

  Ahaesarus nodded and began to whisper words of prayer. His hands glowed with holy light. Patrick felt the warmth and comfort of Ashhur’s healing magics course through him and leaned his head back on the soaked cobbles. He began to grow tired, but before he closed his eyes, he looked one last time at the place where Ashhur and Karak had fought, where the blood of gods had been spilled before a bolt of lightning swallowed them both, along with Jacob Eveningstar, the child of two gods.

  “Ashhur, where did you go?” he asked aloud before he lost consciousness.

  CHAPTER

  52

  Rachida’s surviving band of sellswords tried to scale the stumpy new hillock as the winged horses approached, but the steep incline and their armor made them clumsy. Her men slid down the rocks or tumbled head over heels. Rachida herself attempted no such foolish measure. She had just seen a demon turn into a precipitous pile of rocks, elves stare up at the sky as if listening to some unheard diatribe and then half of them fall screaming to the ground, and now winged horses flew over the horizon. No, she was going to stay ready for whatever came next.

  “Quester!” she shouted over the din of flapping wings and shrieking elves. “Pox Jon, Turock—get the men moving! Forget the winged horses. We have our own.”

  The Crimson Sword was but a few feet away, gazing undecidedly at the writhing, warping elves, and the brash young sellsword began barking orders to the others wearing Karak’s armor. Pox Jon and Decker, who’d been trying—and failing—to scale the mountain, ran past her to where the few horses they had remaining lingered, held six reins per hand by others of their party. Turock and his spellcasters gave the collapsed elves as wide a berth as they could. She was impressed by the restraint they all showed, not gawking in awe at the flying horses.

  But then again, the earth itself had just risen up and swallowed a demon. Dark wonders were becoming surprisingly commonplace.

  The others began hustling after her, armor clanking and boots stomping the ground. Rachida waved them past, keeping a wary eye constantly on the fallen elves. There were so many, possibly more than a thousand, both males and females among them. Their bodies swelled and twisted, their skin changing color. Rachida didn’t like that one bit.

  She liked it even less when they stood up.

  Her men were still filing past when they did so. With the new hillock creating an obstruction on one side, the cliff on the other, and so many forms packed in the two-hundred-foot area in between, the soldiers who had yet to cross the threshold stood no chance. The altered elves, their upper bodies bulky, their incisors sharp, shook their heads as if waking from a dream. That only lasted a brief moment. They roared in voices raspy and bestial and proceeded to lash out at the closest things to them—her men.

  Her soldiers had weapons, whereas most of the beasts didn’t, but the men were vastly outnumbered and ill prepared for the brutality of these new, savage things. The beasts leapt at their prey two, three, four at a time, biting faces, ripping at necks, bludgeoning with their fists. “No!” Rachida exclaimed. She went to draw her Twins but came away with only one. She’d forgotten that she’d given one to the Quellan who had taken charge during the demon’s attack. One would have to do. “Quester—with me!” she screamed. With the shortsword in hand, she charged into the melee.

  In the art of swordplay, if Moira was the gymnast, Rachida was the dancer. She flowed like water through the madness, on her toes, each part of her body moving in harmony. She spun away from greedy claws, ducked beneath snapping mouths, pirouetted around her would-be murderers. Her sword was an extension of her hand, its blade going exactly where she wished it. She flicked her wrist, severing a throat, then slid to the side, raised her free hand up, and brought her other arm around, spearing a female beast in the chest. Each time she twirled, she grabbed the collar of one of her men, shoving him toward safety. Some of her men made it; others were swallowed by the riotous horde of gray flesh.

  Quester appeared by her side, the young man’s forked beard colored red now, but not with dye. He was elegant in his own right, his longsword looping around, easily cutting away at the unprotected creatures. “There are too many,” he called out. Strangely enough, he almost sounded gleeful about it.

  “I know!” said Rachida, dipping her shoulder and stabbing upward, impaling a beastly elf through the chin.

  “Retreat or die fighting?”

  “Retreat,” she called back.

  The two of them backed away slowly, a constant flurry of motion as they kept space between them and the beasts that wanted them dead. They were soon joined by Talon Blackwolfe, who hacked away in his own special, belligerent style, his greasy, dark hair flopping about him. The three of them gathered up men as they went, until it was a group of twenty that cut their way through the homicidal host. The beasts surrounded them, pressing in on all sides. Their strength seemed to grow with each passing moment, as did their threshold for pain. Rachida slashed one across the belly, only to have it run at her again while its intestines trailed behind.

  “I’m sorry, Moira,” she muttered as she gutted yet another former elf.

  “Get down!” she heard Turock scream.

  The largest fireball Rachida had seen since Karak decimated the Temple of the Flesh soared over her head just as she ducked. It struck the ground and detonated, sending dead soldiers and flailing gray-skinned beasts tumbling into the air. The smell of scorched flesh filled her nostrils. Smoke began to choke out the space they fought in.

  “Hot damn!” Turock shouted.

  The beasts surrounding Rachida’s pack began to thin out, when another fireball, slightly smaller this time, soared overhead, setting even more of the beasts aflame. The former elves stared at the flames, their deep-set eyes wide with fear. “Now!” Rachida ordered. With Quester in the lead, they shoved their way through those who remained. Men still died, but more of the beasts did now. A ray of lightning as thick as Rachida’s body struck those off to the right, making their bodies shake and smoke and finally explode, sending more of the twisted elves over the cliff.

  Finally, the beasts fell away from them. Rachida turned and ran toward the line where Turock stood with his sixteen s
pellcasters. The looks on each of their faces were of pure glee, Turock’s in particular. The strange, red-haired man hooted as he began launching fireballs with each hand, one after the other, killing beasts and shoving the rest back.

  The survivors dashed past the spellcasters and huffed their way to the other side, away from the cliff where the narrow and flat grassland spread out. Rachida glanced up. The last few winged horses descended to the peak of the new hillock and lifted off mere seconds later, a pair of elves on each of their backs. She watched them glide south, out over the ocean, and spin around, sailing back over their heads as they flew northeast. She then brought her attention to Turock. The spellcaster and his students seemed to be running out of strength, their magical attacks weaker and weaker. Not that it mattered much. Only a handful of twisted elves remained. The rest had fled around the other side of the hillock and disappeared into the forest.

  When it was over, Rachida gathered her remaining men into ranks and took a rough count. Barely half of the eight hundred who had made their way south from Drake remained.

  “We lost so many,” she said, to which Talon dipped his head in respect.

  “Fewer men, fewer greedy hands grasping for my gold,” said a gleeful Quester Billings. The Crimson Sword winked at her. Rachida scowled but said nothing. A sellsword was a sellsword. He was simply living in a world Karak had built, owning the ideals Karak believed in. There would be no changing that.

  She approached the spellcasters last. The group of them was gathered in a tight circle, talking enthusiastically among themselves. Rachida tapped Turock on the shoulder, and the man spun around, his eyes wild with excitement.

  “Did you see that?” he exclaimed as he followed her away from his apprentices. “Did you fucking see that?”