“What are you doing?” someone asked.
Patrick turned his head. Barclay Noonan, a youngster from the southern village of Nor, was trotting along beside him atop a scrawny mule. Barclay was all of fourteen, yet his chin was already covered with rugged stubble that put the sporadic growth on Patrick’s cheeks to shame. The boy was quite strapping—tall and handsome, with a lean build—and Patrick was sure he had captured the heart of near every girl in his village, living a life of which he, with his twisted, uneven body and grotesquely malformed features, could only dream.
“Tending my aches,” he told the boy.
“People are staring,” said Barclay.
“Why should they?”
“Well, you moaned quite loudly. And your hands were down your pants.”
Patrick shrugged. “Eh, I’ve never been big on modesty.”
“You could have asked Father to heal you.”
“I could have, yes. But your father’s touched me enough already. Frankly, it makes me a bit uncomfortable.”
Barclay gave him a queer look. He opened his mouth, then shut it.
“Just pretend that didn’t sound near as terrible as it did,” Patrick told him with a wink.
The boy furrowed his brow and backed his mule away without another word. Patrick swiveled in his saddle to watch as Barclay rejoined the massive swarm of humanity—some on horses, most on foot—which swallowed the Gods’ Road behind him.
Turning back around, he adjusted his crotch and settled in for the long haul ahead. The sun shone brightly in the center of a pearly white sky, the type of clear spring day that promised warmth even though a chill wind still blew. The landscape was awash with contrasts of color—the vibrant purples of crocuses, the cheery yellow splashes of daffodils, and the brilliant dotted whites of bloodroot on the northern edge of the road seemed to wage a war of attrition with the jade green grasses that grew to the south. Even the landscape was in conflict. While rolling hills packed with wildflowers and thatches of trees lined one side; a sprawling flatland lay on the other. This part of the Gods’ Road had always been Patrick’s favorite. It was a conjoining of separate worlds that created a singular, complementary canvas.
It didn’t seem so inspiring now, however—not after six months of traveling north and south, east and west, sleeping atop his bedroll at night and sitting in his saddle each day. Much of that time had been spent negotiating terrain that had never seen a single hoof of traffic as they visited one settlement after another. At least we’re on the actual road again, he thought.
Yet as irritating as the travel had been, the duties he’d performed in each of the villages had been unnerving. In Lockstead, Po, Foldenville, Henkel, and countless other locales, both named and not, Patrick would climb down from his horse and join Ashhur’s side as the god warned his children of the terrors that would soon befall them. Most often they were greeted with expressions just as queer as the one Barclay had given him. Even when Ashhur spoke of the destruction that had befallen Haven, the township of pariahs that had been nestled in the unclaimed lands of the Rigon Delta before it was blown to bits, or warned of Karak’s gathering army, the people tended to just stare in confusion. Patrick wished there were more Wardens with them. The tall, elegant creatures who’d helped raise most of Ashhur’s children would have been able to get the point across much better than Patrick, but nearly ten score of them, half of those from Safeway, had been left behind in Lerder to help prepare the most advanced township in all of Paradise for what lay ahead. Many other Wardens had been asked to stay in other townships to similarly prepare, greatly reducing their numbers.
Then again, even Ashhur was having trouble getting through to his people, so perhaps more Wardens would only have muddied the message. The people of Paradise simply did not understand what was coming. They had been sheltered for the entirety of humanity’s existence on Dezrel. Theirs were lives of simplicity, of worship and play, of farming and breeding. None had experienced sickness, hunger, or terror. When someone grew ill, a healer mended him or her. When the crops refused to grow on their own, runes were carved in the dirt, and roots took hold. Lives free of hardship had left the people of Paradise with no knowledge of nightmares, and there could be no concern for life in a place where none feared an early death. When confronted with the possibility of war, a concept for which they had no frame of reference, they were helpless. In the end, Ashhur had decided he had no choice but to teach his children to defend themselves as much as he could in the short time they spent in each village, inviting those who were too afraid to remain in their homes to accompany them on the journey west to Mordeina. Few stayed behind. Patrick had once been as innocent as they were.
He was now hardened, an ageless, oddly shaped warrior, both a taker and a protector of life. When Karak’s forces had fallen on Haven, he’d been on the front lines of the battle, hacking and slashing with his massive sword Winterbone, putting his life on the line to defend a society of outcasts. Fueling him onward had been his feelings for Rachida Gemcroft, the most gorgeous woman he had ever met, who had accepted him without judgment and was now carrying his child within her…a child he would never know. He had recognized the cynical blasphemers of the delta as his true brothers and sisters, closer to his heart than his true family ever had been.
Except for Nessa.
Upon thinking of his youngest sister, his shoulders slumped. Nessa had joined him on his journey to Haven when Jacob Eveningstar—the eventual betrayer of Ashhur—first sent him to the delta. It seemed like so long ago. He hadn’t seen her in the months since she’d disappeared with her lover, Crian. Rumors claimed that the impulsive nymph had fled west into Paradise, but there had been no confirmation of the reports. In each village they entered, he described Nessa in painstaking detail, but his search had borne no fruit. When they visited villages that had trained birds—which were few and far between—he penned letters to his mother, asking after Nessa. So far he had yet to receive a response, but then again, the rapidly growing procession of humanity was never in the same place for long. How would the message even reach him?
As they continued their trek west, the Gods’ Road curved around a massive hunk of red rock and then opened up, becoming wide enough for five horses to march abreast. Patrick remained at the head of the procession, guiding the countless masses onward. The wavering grassland to his left grew less pronounced, and the hills to his right flattened out. They were now on the border of Ker, a sprawling area of Paradise consisting of wide prairies and long stretches of brutal desert. Perhaps two hours farther west, they would come upon what his childhood friend Bardiya had dubbed the soul tree, an expansive cypress that had somehow taken root in the middle of harsh, arid terrain. Patrick felt another of those heart-wrenching pangs. He wished he could see his friend again, could give Bardiya his condolences after the deaths of the giant’s parents, Bessus and Damaspia of the First Family Gorgoros. A part of him also wished he could run headlong into the Stonewood Forest and lay waste to the bastard elves who had murdered them. Yet he would not. Bardiya knew of the coming hostilities, yet he stood steadfast against any show of violence.
“Let him be,” Ashhur had told Patrick. “I will no longer coerce my children into acquiescence. The choice is theirs whether to fight or surrender.”
Patrick thought that was silly, but he stayed his tongue. Ashhur knows what’s best, he’d told himself. But I still wish you would reconsider, old friend.
The road veered in the opposite direction, and the silhouette of the God of Justice, who had moved ahead of the convoy, appeared on the horizon. Ashhur was a magnificent sight to behold, twelve feet tall and wide as a grayhorn, his white robe fluttering in the breeze. The god gazed toward the south, his giant hand shielding his eyes from the sun. Patrick kicked his horse, galloping away from the thousands who followed him.
“Your Grace,” he said as he approached the deity.
“Patrick,” Ashhur replied, his lips spreading into a grin.
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�Something interesting out there?”
The god nodded. “Another settlement.”
“Another?” Patrick said with a sigh. He followed his deity’s stare, cupping his palm against his distended brow. A hundred feet or so from the road was a ridge of red clay, and below it he could see a thin plume of smoke. There looked to be a single wooden construction surrounded by a great many tents arranged in a circle. “What’s this one called?”
“Grassmere.”
“Funny name for a hamlet, considering there’s nothing but dirt and twine down there.”
“Places are often named for that which the residents desire to have, but do not.”
Patrick looked to the side of his saddle, where Winterbone was fastened.
“If you say so,” he said.
Ashhur looked down on him and smirked. “Must you always debase my wisdom?”
Patrick slapped his knee. “Only when I realize we actually have to talk to these people, and I’m going to be forced to use these pathetic legs to climb down a slope covered in rocks.”
Ashhur laughed, which warmed Patrick’s insides. The deity had a laugh that could make flowers bloom in wintertime, coupled with a smile that could light up the darkest night. It was disheartening that both were in such short supply of late.
A family of antelope passed through the grasslands to the east as they traversed the rough terrain leading to the earthy settlement of Grassmere. As had become their custom, Patrick and Ashhur were the first to make the trek. The remaining thousands lingered on the road, using the reprieve to rest their legs, drink from their waterskins, or tend to the tired horses and other assorted livestock that accompanied them on their journey. It was only when Patrick had some distance from the procession that he realized just how loud they were. Myriad voices murmuring at once, hundreds of babes wailing, the constant clamor of shuffling feet. In that moment, he realized the hugeness of what they were doing. Ashhur had gathered a traveling city with a population as big as—if not bigger—than that of Mordeina. He was glad he’d never stayed behind to see what the land looked like after they vacated an area. With so many people and animals eating, pissing, and defecating, it could not be a very pretty sight. Or smell.
A massive throng of people greeted them once they reached the base of the plateau. Patrick looked all around him and realized there were no Wardens among the populace. He also noticed that as simple as Grassmere had appeared from far above, it was rather complex up close. There were more animal-hide tents than he’d first assumed, a hundred of them evenly spaced in an ever-widening spiral, all tilted to face the central fire pit. After the last tent in the spiral—the largest, as tall as two men; its canvas still covered with the speckled brown and white fur of the creature whose flesh had created it—there was that single wooden building. The granary, he assumed. Arranged in front of it were abundant gardens shaped in interlocking Ts, forming a geometric pattern that stretched out into the horizon. The gardens took nourishment from a series of narrow ditches that zigzagged between them, which were fed from a fresh spring that formed a shallow pool beside the granary.
Ashhur approached the throng, and they dropped to their knees, bending so low their lips touched the dusty ground. He lifted a small child, the six-month-old infant no larger than an apple in his godly hand, and kissed the babe on the forehead. Ashhur appeared solemn as he watched his creations.
“Rise, my children,” the god said. “Stand, and greet me well.”
The people did as their god told them, their expressions awash with wonder and bewilderment. Just as in every other settlement, the people of this town possessed distinct characteristics—in this instance, deeply tanned flesh, lean builds, and curly, brown- and black-tinged hair. If not for their eyes, which were different shades of deep blue and emerald green, they could have been mistaken for Kerrians, Bardiya’s people and Ashhur’s darker-skinned children.
Then again, almost every person who lived east of the Corinth was of mixed heritage. Gazing upon the beauty of nearly every face he set eyes on, Patrick had to admit that the results were spectacular.
A short, slender man, whose beard held patches of white, approached them. He bent his knee before Ashhur, taking hold of the god’s hand and kissing his fingers one by one. He then rose and smiled. He was missing half his teeth, but those that remained were white as the winter snow.
“My Grace,” the man said, “your arrival is a great surprise, and a joy beyond joy. We are honored that you grace our home with your sacred presence.”
“And it is my honor to have come, Felton Freeman. Consider yourselves blessed.”
The elder looked up, wonder making his face shine. “You remembered,” he whispered. “I have not visited the Sanctuary in thirty years, yet you remembered.”
“Of course, my child,” replied the deity. “I always remember.”
Patrick chuckled. It hadn’t surprised him that Ashhur knew the names of the elders of every settlement they came across. He was a god, after all, and these were his creations. Yet none ever expected it, and it amused him greatly to see the looks of pride and awe whenever Ashhur greeted his children by name.
Ashhur helped Felton Freeman to his feet before addressing the entirety of Grassmere’s residents. “I love you all, my children, but unfortunately the message I am here to give you is not one of spirituality. There are great terrors approaching to devastate our paradise. My arrival is a forewarning of the hardships to come.”
“Wait for it,” Patrick whispered out the corner of his mouth. Ashhur glanced down at him, frowning, but a second later it happened. Confused murmurs erupted in the crowd, faces looking on with slack-jawed puzzlement. Felton Freeman furrowed his brow and turned to look at his people before facing his god once more. Then his eyes moved upward, to the ridge of the plateau above Ashhur’s head, taking in the sight of the massive gathering on the Gods’ Road. The man appeared downright stupefied…just like every other man and woman who had heard this speech over the last several months. Patrick at first couldn’t understand why his god would tantalize his people with such vague warnings, but over time he had come to understand. One could not confront a naïve people with grave specifics without first preparing them for the telling.
“I fear I don’t understand, My Grace,” said the elder.
Ashhur spoke once more, his voice rising, booming across the countryside. “My brother has declared war on Paradise. The pact between us has been broken. Whereas once Paradise and Neldar existed peacefully, that peace is no more. He has formed a great army in the east, and he has pledged to cross our borders and bring pain and suffering to all who do not submit. I do not know when he plans to march, nor do I know the size of the force he has built, but I can tell you beyond a shadow of a doubt that he will come. My brother is not one to make idle threats, and I have already witnessed the devastation he is capable of wreaking when he fell upon the delta.”
More confused murmurs from the crowd, only this time a few voices were raised in panic. Felton frowned, looking small as a mouse before his towering god.
“I still don’t understand, My Grace,” he said.
Ashhur sighed, running a godly hand through his golden hair. “We must prepare for the coming war. The village must be fortified, and you must ready yourselves for horrors you have never before experienced. I am here to assist you in this endeavor. I will teach you all you need to know, though our time here will be short.” The god pointed back toward the ridge of the plateau. “Those who doubt their strength are free to accompany me on my journey west to Mordeina.”
A young woman dressed in a sarong of antelope hide stepped away from the mob. She had a suckling babe at her breast, the same child Ashhur had kissed when he first entered the settlement. Her azure eyes flicked to Patrick, and he saw her shudder for a moment before her gaze returned to her deity.
“My Grace,” she said, her voice innocent and pure. “Why would Karak wish us harm? What have we done wrong? Is my little Quentin not innocent?”
“He is, and you have done nothing wrong,” replied Ashhur. “My brother’s motivations are beyond understanding, and I have no control or influence over him. All I can hope to do is protect you as best I can, my wonderful creations whom I love more than my own being.”
“Is this a parable?” shouted someone from within the throng.
“A test?” shouted another.
“No,” replied Ashhur.
The girl’s lips twisted into a half frown and she rejoined the gathering of her villagers. Felton did the same, looking as lost and confused as a wayward pup. They stood as a writhing mass of humanity, talking among themselves, words drowning out words drowning out the occasional laugh or tentative plea. Patrick looked up at Ashhur, and the god leaned over.
“That went well,” Patrick said sarcastically.
“As well as it could,” said Ashhur, sounding dejected. “They do not understand. Not a one of them. I created them. Their naïveté is my doing.”
Patrick shrugged. “No harm in that, My Grace. You wanted to create paradise, and you did. It was wonderful while it lasted. How could you know Karak would turn out to be such a bastard?”
Ashhur turned away without answering, his glowing golden stare settling on the eastern expanse. His expression was blank. Patrick didn’t like that look. Not one bit.
The residents of Grassmere split into two groups—those who wished to stay behind and those who would accompany the god on the journey to Mordeina. Two thirds of the populace chose the latter, and they wandered up the slope of the plateau, carrying their meager possessions. Patrick spent the rest of the day lecturing those who remained, mostly young families, on how to protect themselves. They disassembled some of the tents of those who had departed, using flat-edged stones to whittle the tips of the poles to points for spears. As with most every settlement outside of Lerder, there was little to no iron available—even the large granary had been built with interlocking logs tied off with twine—so they would have to defend themselves with what they had. He instructed a group of men to dig into the soil and gather as many large rocks as they could to hurl at the enemy, and he made man and woman alike form a line and showed them how to thrust with the pointy end of a spear, describing the sensitive areas on the human body.
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