Useless, Ewan thought. The god was stalling. He would not use his magic to create violence like the Sirtai did, probably because that would draw attention to him, and then, the witch might attack him personally. But from what Ewan remembered reading in The Pains of Memory, Calemore could not kill Tanid. Not by his own hand, anyway. So the god was a mere coward. A selfish coward.
“How are we going to win this war?” Ewan asked.
Tanid swallowed. “You. The wizards. You must kill Calemore.”
Sacrifice ourselves, Ewan figured. “Calemore may not kill you.” He raised his crippled hand. “But he may kill us. Is that what you ask of us? Is that what you ask of me? That I die defending you?”
Tanid hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Yes. I am your god.”
Ewan snorted. “You don’t deserve to be my god.” He shook his head and walked away.
It wouldn’t be long before the White Witch unleashed all his might against Roalas. Inevitably, his forces would defeat King Sergei and Princess Sasha, defeat the token forces fielded by Amalia, her Caytorean followers, and the religious fanatics. After that, Calemore would take the rest of the realms almost unimpeded. He might encounter resistance in Eracia or Caytor, but somehow Ewan knew that once this battle was over, it would all be over.
He still could just walk away. Leave this madness behind.
Ewan stopped pacing. He looked at the magical weapon in his hand. Terrible, beautiful. You would not imagine how much death and destruction it could render from its slender, spotless crystalline length. It was only too appropriate that it drank human blood. Nothing else would be deemed a worthy price.
I can use this thing. Risk my own life and use it. He sighed. Why had he ever felt the urge to dive to the bottom of that lake in Kamar Doue? Why had he taken this thing? It could not just be a symbol of chance. He had a calling, something bigger than this misery. More than just watching the realms slowly die, helpless to prevent it.
I have found the bloodstaff for a reason. There must be a reason. There must be. A reason why I can’t feel anything. A reason for why I am so lonely. A reason for why I was locked in the Abyss for so many years. I am the son of a god, and that has to be more than just a silly twist of fate.
Must be.
He tried to think like that coward, Tanid. Tried to understand how the god meant to win this war. The ancient thoughts sparkled in his head, telling him snippets of old, forgotten stories. Calemore had planned his revenge ever since his first defeat. His coming back had been inevitable, and it seemed that so his victory would be. Maybe Tanid did not know how to defeat the witch. Maybe he was as desperate as everyone else, clinging to life, clinging to hope.
What would happen if Calemore killed everyone? Would that make Tanid so weak that he just perished? What was his real power? What could a god really do? Affect the weather? Make fireballs explode in the midst of enemy ranks like Jarman and Lucas did? If not, what was the purpose of his divinity except to be an emotional outlet for all those who prayed in his name? Maybe being a god was not a blessing. It might very well be a curse.
Still, no matter what Tanid could do, Ewan was certain the god planned to sacrifice every last human before he risked himself. He would make them pray until they lost their voices, and then he would make them fight until they all died. He would draw strength from their faith and use it to prolong his own existence, and he would not do much to prevent the destruction of all of the realms. The god valued his own life more than any other. Even if it meant the death of all those who believed in him.
That was divinity, all right, he thought. That was morality worthy of a god.
The last shred of his own faith fell apart right then.
If I’m going to sacrifice my own life, I will do it for the people of the realms, not for some selfish immortal bastard.
He gripped the bloodstaff more tightly. There was a weapon that didn’t care about his strength. He might crush rocks in his hands, but he couldn’t dent the perfect hollow glass rod of the magical weapon.
How do we stop Calemore?
I might have to walk into the enemy ranks and fight him myself, hand to hand.
There just did not seem to be any better option. He would certainly be killed. But it might be worth it.
He should consult with the Sirtai. They might have a better idea. Maybe the three of them together could devise a plan to defeat the witch, or at least wound him so severely that he would admit defeat and retreat. Deep down, though, Ewan knew it would be his battle alone.
He looked across the river, then north. The smoke from enemy camps merged into a low, sooty cloud bank that hid away what little beauty and sunlight there were in the frozen, filthy fields outside the city.
King Sergei had done all he could to prepare for the enemy. Now, it was up to his men.
Ewan was not really sure where the two wizards were. He hadn’t seen any of the leaders recently either. Maybe he was avoiding them, uncomfortable with Amalia’s crazed stare or the hate in the eyes of Princess Sasha. Above all, he was tired of death and killing.
The finest hairs on his forearms pricked. That was all the warning he had.
He jumped sideways and rolled, under a cart, into a trench. And then he was running, fast, hard, shoving soldiers like they were the errant branches of a pesky tree. The unmistakable sound of red pellets slamming into the ground chased him. Blood and screams engulfed him.
The shower of silent crystal arrows raked down the length of the ditch, but then Calemore lost him, and the cold firestorm swept away, receding. A haze of snow and dust was settling onto the heap of torn flesh. Maimed soldiers were lying in puddles of their own innards, screaming and begging for mercy.
Chaos engulfed the defenders. The words of prayer became curses and shouts, men running everywhere, but mostly away. Everyone had heard the stories about the earlier attack, and no one wanted to be around invisible death. Valor was gone, replaced by terror.
Ewan hunkered down, staring from behind a pile of shaved logs, trying to figure out where the witch might be. He didn’t have time to contemplate the man’s wisdom or reasoning for this sudden fury. He did not want to learn whether Jarman’s shield would hold.
All he wanted was to unleash violence. A well of pent-up fury and disappointment.
Luckily, the snow was a much better killing ground than mud. Ewan could see the spatter, the horseshoe-shaped arc of death, the trail of destruction. Calemore was standing somewhere on the far bank of the Telore, a handful of miles north of Roalas, just before the river curved and hugged the city.
There were no more pellets coming. No retaliation from the wizards. Strange.
Carefully, he inched forward, still trying to hide from a direct line of sight. His fingers itched. He wanted to fire the bloodstaff back at its maker. It might not kill him, but it would wreak havoc with his troops, and that was good enough for Ewan right now.
Tanid was also hiding, he noticed. Hunched like a frightened child, with a dozen Parusite troops holding shields above his prostrate, curled form, a few thin, inadequate wooden buildings separating them from the ruby magic.
Ewan had no doubt the bloodstaff could punch through the boards easily. But Calemore was not firing at the god. He never had, no matter how close the hits scored.
He couldn’t kill the god. And still, the coward would not risk his life to protect the people of the realms.
Then…
Ewan saw a soldier coming toward the deity. He looked out of place, because all his comrades were running away or without purpose. This one was marching forward, boldly, unafraid, confident. He was approaching Gavril, and none of Sergei’s men and Sasha’s women seemed to pay him any heed. Dressed as a Parusite, he was yet another member of the royal army.
Something is wrong, Ewan thought with mounting dread.
Almost effortlessly, the soldier drew his sword and ran Tanid through.
No!
The man didn’t even try to defend himself when the other men at
tacked him, hacking him to pieces. By then, it was too late. The god was bleeding his last syrupy moments onto the snow, a sheet of life almost like crimson silk gushing around the iron blade stuck in his ribs and pooling under him. Tanid’s arms moved feebly, and he tried to reach the wet, dripping blade that had him pinned to the ground through his ribs, but he just brushed the red edges and then slumped, not moving again.
Ewan wasn’t sure if anyone else felt it, but his soul reeled. His gut clenched, not unlike the feeling he had experienced so often in the past. He gagged dryly.
A god had just died.
The last god in the realms had died.
It had just been a diversion, nothing more.
Hissing explosions erupted among the enemy. Giant showers of silt, gravel, and human bits bloomed across the river. One of the Sirtai magical attacks slammed into the water, and a pillar of steam and mud rose in a gray fountain. The Naum troops were edging back, spreading about.
The whole front was one huge, incessant howl of noise. Bugles and horns were screaming, and the troops were scrambling, some for killing, others for flight.
All too aware he could be killed by the bloodstaff, Ewan crawled from behind his hiding place and dashed toward Gavril’s corpse. The Parusites and a handful of pilgrims were milling aimlessly, their faces contorted with panic. Bent low, Ewan sprinted through the crowd, pushing soldiers away, trying not to show his face to the witch.
“He’s dead. He’s dead,” one of the followers was mumbling, tears running down his pocked face.
Ewan knelt in the red snow, staring at the curled form. It didn’t look divine anymore. Just a sack of loose flesh and some bones. Gods might have created humanity, but they died like any other man.
Calemore had just assassinated Tanid.
Religion was dead, yet no one seemed to be behaving any differently. They looked just as cold, starved, and confused as they had the day before. Maybe humans could not know their makers were gone. Maybe faith was all about how they felt about themselves.
Even in that small regard, the gods and goddesses had been selfish. They would take from humans, but they wouldn’t give back.
“Oh gods, why,” someone else lamented. “Please no.”
Ewan tried to keep his breath calm, but it was hard with nausea tickling his gullet. No time for mourning now. We have to win this war.
“Stand back. Retreat. Now. Take Gavril’s body and run. Now!” he shouted.
The soldiers frowned at him, but like any frightened animal, they obeyed a stern voice. Soon enough, all that was left of Tanid’s death was a pink stain.
Does Calemore know he’s killed the god? Ewan wondered. What would he do now?
But it seemed like he hadn’t planned on ending the war after murdering the last of the gods, because the fighting and killing continued. The northern force was pushing. Jarman and Lucas were doing their best, trying to destroy the other army. The Telore was seething, bobbing from explosions, with human bodies scattered on its choppy gray surface like autumn leaves. The Naum troops were milling as only a huge host could, but Ewan saw they were getting ready to cross.
This, too, must be a diversion, Ewan figured, but he couldn’t tell what Calemore was planning. The White Witch had very elaborate schemes, and he might be springing another trap. He might be getting ready to kill the wizards after they got tired and dropped their defenses. Or he was keeping them busy until his other troops could advance and crush the defenders.
I hope they can still protect me. He rushed from behind the low barracks, leveled the bloodstaff at the enemy, and fired. Like always, the silent torrent of death surprised him. Red crystals sped away at incredible speed and slammed into the enemy ranks, mowing them down. A gap opened in the Naum units, a deep, crimson wound.
He had that premonition again, the tingling of fine hairs on his arms and nape. Calemore’s missiles rained all around him, and he was blinded by snow and debris as he ran madly without looking, sidestepping now and then, hoping his erratic movement made the witch miss.
Then, a red ruby burst at the corner of his eye. He stumbled. Death, there it is.
Shards of the blood pellet scattered around him, but none touched him. They grazed around an invisible layer of magic covering his skin. If not for Jarman’s shield, he would have been dead right now, a corpse without a head.
Thank you, wizard.
Emboldened, he stopped running and lowered the rod toward the Naum men once more. He let loose a long red tongue of destruction until the last drop of blood ran out. But he didn’t have to go far to replenish the weapon. Calemore’s earlier work had left him plenty of fresh sources.
He pressed the bloodstaff against a nearby corpse, watching with fascination and disgust as the skin paled. Soon enough, the body was dry, and the rod glistened brilliant scarlet. Calemore was attacking again. Ewan rolled away. He might be protected—for now—but that did not mean he should abuse his luck.
Earth growled as magic hailed around him and clawed against it. Ewan dashed toward the enemy, away from the friendly troops, trying to keep the Athesians and Parusites safe. They need not die for him. He would not demand that from them like Tanid had. He was—
He heard himself cry breathlessly, and he fell hard, his left leg a furnace of pain. Flopping over, his vision blazing silver with agony, his body heavy and ungainly, he saw bone sticking from his calf, punched through. Blood was leaking out, steaming.
Calemore had just injured him again.
Jarman’s shield was gone.
Gripping the bloodstaff as hard as he could, he aimed and fired, more, more. The witch responded, and another pellet grazed his arm, spun him around like a mannequin. He could not run away anymore. He would die soon.
The ground shook. A huge column of boiling water and river silt shot skyward, obscuring his view. He dug his left hand into the snow and pulled himself away, trembling like a child. More explosions, more dust and snow swirling almost like a blizzard. He reached forward, jabbed his fingers into the frozen earth, and pulled again, panting, spitting, snot flying from his nose.
I need to get away.
Like a cripple, he rolled over several times, dizzy, and lumped himself behind a rock. A blood trail marked his flight, but he wasn’t sure if Calemore could discern such details, wherever he was. At least he hoped not.
His leg needed fixing. Where was Jarman? He wanted to call for help, but there was no one around, just dead bodies. He looked behind him and saw the northern force moving. Soon enough, he would be surrounded by the enemy. They might not be able to kill him, but in his condition, neither could he kill them.
The magical attacks ceased. The Sirtai were probably exhausted. Calemore’s armies were moving slowly, inexorably, advancing. Soon, they would crush the people of the realms. No one could stop them. Not even he.
It’s over, he figured. I should never have used this cursed weapon. If he had only used his muscles, he could have kept on killing the Naum soldiers without end. But he didn’t want to make that his legacy.
Your legacy is to die a nameless fool.
He let out a long, shivering breath and slumped against the stone. The cold didn’t touch him. Only his ruined leg was on fire, and his shoulder burned. For a moment, he laughed, once, twice, the choked sobs of madness, then started crying. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was afraid.
CHAPTER 47
Using too much magic could kill you, Jarman knew.
You wouldn’t die right away, no, but it thinned your blood. And then you would succumb to simple diseases or the cold. That was why he ate so much red meat and drank goat’s blood after engagements with the Naum forces, but it never seemed enough.
Calemore had initiated a sudden strike half an hour earlier with his bloodstaff, surprising them all. After weeks of silent standoff as far as those terrible weapons were concerned, the White Witch had attacked, as if he didn’t care that the Sirtai might fight back. No one could guess what an immortal mind might concoct as hi
s battle plan, but the witch was probably trying to kill Ewan.
Lucas and he had the boy shielded.
Jarman had readied to let loose a deadly volley against the witch. With luck, he might kill him.
Only, the enemy troops had suddenly surged forward, both massive camps at the same time, and even Jarman could see they would obliterate the defenders, totally, utterly, that very day. He had been forced to choose between hunting Calemore or killing his troops. Now, Lucas and he were busy trying to fend the huge tide off, to buy time, and each gout of magic cost them more life. They were exhausted, trembling, and what little strength they had was oozing fast. Meanwhile, Calemore was free to sow destruction through the army ranks. Jarman hoped Ewan was fighting back with his own weapon.
Oh, he was so tired.
His friend was much stronger, but even the senior Anada had their limits. The tattooed wizard could fight for hours after Jarman slumped to the ground, weak and shivering and trying to keep bile down, but they just didn’t have enough power to stop the foe.
Jarman’s strength faltered. He dropped to one knee, dizzy.
The pain that lanced through his temples wasn’t his—it was Ewan’s.
“The boy is hurt,” Lucas rasped, even before Jarman could make his mouth form the words.
“I can’t hold the shield anymore,” Jarman whispered.
Lucas nodded grimly. His own magic was weakening. Their blasts were much smaller now, less accurate, landing in the water and on the near side of the river. Soon, they would have to stop and rest and let the people of the realms clash with the Naum invaders. They had probably butchered several thousand, but it did not seem to matter much. Not enough to change the course of the war.
“Help him,” Lucas spoke. He might be a life slave, but that was an order, from one wizard to another.
Jarman staggered upright, tottered over to a small backpack. Inside, he had strips of goat meat, several blood sausages. Like a madman ignoring the reality around him, he sunk his teeth into the soft, spiced flesh, munching loudly, sucking on the red fibers. He drank water, icy droplets running down his chin. He gulped honey from a glass jar, almost gagging on its sweetness.
The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) Page 48