Still, he’d make certain Brogan got his chance to end the madness once and for all.
The white-haired Grakhul woman continued to glare at Brogan’s back. So did Beron, when the slaver wasn’t looking directly at Harper and promising bloody retribution with his eyes. None of it mattered.
Even as he contemplated the many folks who wanted his best friend dead, the woman, Darwa, touched the edge of the stone arch and started speaking in a language he had never learned. Galeans did not, as a rule, like to share their secrets. Anna Harkness touched the stone of the archway as well, and began keeping pace, saying the same words, though it took her a moment to fully keep up with the woman who’d taught her much of what she knew.
When the two voices effectively became one, the true show began.
At first they managed to quell the lightning. Then the view from within the opening in the arch changed. The distortion lessened and then vanished, showing a clear pathway through a field of grass that was tamed and taught to grow at the same speed. He’d never seen the like in his life.
The world beyond the Gateway looked too perfect. The colors were too bright and the castles in the distance all seemed as if they’d never had so much as a bird shit on their stones. Perhaps none dared. Perhaps there were no birds because the gods did not like them. He could not say and did not want the knowledge of how the gods thought.
That way, he was certain, madness waited.
There was a sudden shift in the air, and the winds that had been chilling him suddenly grew warmer. The breeze was strong enough to push his cloak back and ruffle his hair.
Ahead of him, Brogan let out a deep sigh and nodded his head.
Not but one second of delay and then Brogan stepped across the threshold of the archway and vanished from sight.
Chapter Twenty-Four
War Torn
Brogan
The land beyond looked too perfect. For that reason, Brogan did not trust the image he was seeing. It was a promise of paradise, perfect weather, tended lawns and vast palaces fit for, well, for gods.
There were five of the vast structures, though one of them now lay in ruins. He could see it in the far distance and part of him understood that what he saw was once the home of the god of the seas, the very thing he had destroyed along with Walthanadurn. He knew that the castle had fallen at the exact same time as the god had died. There was no question of that in his mind. He knew, because somewhere inside of him, what remained of a god knew.
Crossing through the barrier was easy. He only had to walk forward. As he stepped through the weather changed. There was heat now, and there was a hard, bitter wind.
What he expected to see was the truth laid out before him. What he saw was exactly that, and the truth was not pretty.
There were still castles in the distance, but they were not as perfect as one might expect. They were ancient, and though the mortar and brick held, all of it looked decayed and well into the days of ruin after the best of everything had passed.
The skies were not as blue as a robin’s egg. No, they were almost as dark as the cloudy caul that served as skies back in his homeland. The breeze that struck him smelled of rot and ruin. The perfect lawns he’d seen were diseased and what grew there was certainly toxic in nature.
As with all things, he was certain, the gods lied. They showed a promise of paradise for any who might be brave enough to venture into their world, but the reality was like a badly scarred face behind a mask of beauty.
Perhaps the gods were once perfection and glory, but all that remained was decay and the vestigial memories of what they had been.
And between him and those rotted castles? Well, there he saw the armies of the gods.
They waited in ranks that were too vast to comprehend. It was likely that Brogan could never count as high as the servants of the gods numbered if he spent his entire lifetime doing nothing else.
They were brutes. Of course they were. What they wore offered no glory to their masters, only a promise of death and destruction. Great breastplates and chain beneath and leather and enough armor to slow any mortal man down. They wore it with ease and they moved with purpose, their equally oversized warhorses prancing impatiently – ready, it seemed, to do battle.
The faces of the creatures were hidden away in helmets that showed only a space for their eyes to see. Each soldier bore a sword and a shield, and weapons designed solely for the purpose of killing. Their heavy arms were thick with fur, and where there was bare flesh it was coated with warts and scales. They were not human, but they mimed the part well enough.
Brogan looked upon them and felt himself smile. This he could understand. He may not live through it, but he could fully comprehend the reason for their existence. They were here to stop him. He was here to get past them and reach the gods themselves. He would not be stopped by them. He would not be stopped.
Brogan roared and charged forward, running toward the first of his enemies. As he stepped deeper into the realm of gods he felt the energies within him catch fire. His arms were strong and the axe he carried seemed to weigh nothing. The armor on his body, pressed close to his skin, changed as he moved, grew thicker, developed coarse markings, yet still seemed weightless.
The soldiers who faced him were in perfect marching order. Each and every one standing at attention, riding a steed that carried them with ease.
The first of his enemies had no time to flinch before his axe was driving the creature’s helmet down into his neck and shoulder, carving a trench into the great metal facade. He fell from his horse and the animal toppled, crashing to the side.
An empty suit of armor astride a hollow horse. Brogan scowled, confused by what had just happened.
Behind him the first of the Marked Men came through, riding horses and prepared for war. He looked back toward them for a moment and frowned. This was not what he expected. This was not the war he’d planned for.
The armored soldiers on their armored horses moved. A moment before, the armor had been empty and the horses had been hollow, but now, without any apparent change, they came to life.
As Brogan stared, the ranks of soldiers in the service of the gods raised their weapons, prepared their shields and started toward the Marked Men.
The Marked Men, in return, raised lances and shields as their mounts began the charge.
With Brogan in the area between both forces.
He backed up, shaking his head. Whatever had been going through his mind, the reality of the situation got the better of him and he retreated, moving between the ranks of Marked Men and letting them have their place in the combat.
When he could, Harper came closer. “Is this the part where you planned to fight the gods all alone?”
“I didn’t expect an army, I also didn’t expect that army to play games.”
“What do you mean?”
“I attacked first. I hit a hollow suit of armor on a false horse.”
“They’re gods, Brogan. They’re hardly going to play by your rules!” Harper had to yell to be heard as the Marked Men and the armies of the gods clashed. It was not a balanced fight at all. There were far more of the gods’ soldiers than of King Parrish’s trusted warriors.
Still, lances versus swords; the first wave of attacks went to the Marked Men, who unseated a great many of their enemies as they charged forward. Soldiers from both sides were unhorsed and fell to the ground. As they tried to rise, more of the riders came forward and knocked them aside or trampled them. Brogan watched on, considering if there was a way he could enter the fray.
Harper shook his head. “Do you think it would be wise to fight these men when you already have gods to battle? Don’t be a fool.”
He shot a withering glance toward his best friend and Harper shrugged it aside with ease. “One of these fools cuts off your head, you’ll do no one any good.”
Harper was moving to the side, seeking a way past the masses. He wasn’t having much luck. There were hundre
ds and hundreds of fighters near them and the clash was growing as more of the Marked Men came through.
“I’d planned on doing this alone.”
“I have no doubt, but it can’t be handled that way, Brogan. There are too many here that want to see this end as much as you do.”
“So how am I supposed to reach the gods through this madness?” He was yelling himself now as the battle continued.
Parrish himself came toward him, a small faction of Marked Men spearheading a wedge of horses and soldiers pushing through the melee, intent on reaching him.
Harper pointed at the group. “I expect he plans to help.”
Though it had seemed for a moment that the soldiers of Mentath would never stop entering the fray, they did, in fact, run out of fresh reinforcements, and faster than Brogan might have liked.
The battle grew louder and moved closer, as the hordes of the gods smashed through the ranks of the Marked Men. Though he had not truly engaged any of them yet, they seemed intent on reaching Brogan.
Parrish shook his head. “I’ve no idea where you plan on going to reach the gods, but I can try to get you closer to those distant castles.”
“I expect it won’t matter.” Brogan shook his head and spat. “I’ve no idea how many soldiers they have.”
Parrish shook his head and offered a hand. “Climb aboard. We’ll do what we can.”
There seemed little choice. The fight was coming their way and without a horse and a barrier of some sort, Brogan would be struck down. His initial arrogance had been just that, arrogance. Sooner or later someone would strike him down if they could find him. It was just that simple.
Harper moved, sliding past him and striking at one of the armored creatures coming for Brogan. His swords were fast and brutal and he pushed the thing down from its mount, his weapons striking a dozen times before the thing could try to climb to its feet.
There was no choice. Not really. Brogan took the offered hand and climbed aboard the warhorse behind King Parrish.
Within moments Harper was lost in the background as the Marked Men forced their way into the battle and bashed at the servants of the gods. They met resistance quickly and soon the wedge formation began to soften and fall apart as the soldiers were entangled in combat.
Brogan growled. “This is madness!”
“You wanted to fight the gods, McTyre! Did you think it would be easy?” Parrish swung his sword and hacked down on the thick arm of one of his enemies. The sword did its work and the thing let out a bestial shriek as flesh and bone alike were carved in two.
Brogan’s axe cleaved through its head while it was defenseless. The impact was brutal, but nothing he was not prepared for.
In the distance behind them the Gateway flared again and again as more people came through. The slavers from the ship were arriving, and they attacked with abandon, hacking and cutting at the things that fought the Marked Men. Perhaps the attack was unexpected, it was hard to say with any certainty. All Brogan knew was that the armored things were pinned for a moment between two groups, a pincer maneuver that had them retreating in short order.
Brogan smiled. Adrenaline soared into his body and it was more than just that. He’d been caught many times in the song of combat. The body’s desire to wreak violence upon an enemy. He’d fought against Parrish and his people in the war against Mentath. He’d sold his sword a hundred times, and it was almost always a guarantee of violence when he rode in defense of merchant wagons.
This was different. He was in the home of the gods and whatever had been done to him, being there seemed to make him stronger. A sword clashed with the armor he wore and skittered off harmlessly.
“Come to me, you bastards!” He roared the challenge as Parrish fought ahead of him and his own weapons fell to the left and right. The warhorse was a brute and its hooves came down again and again on the mounts of the enemies. Blades came for him and he deflected them with ease. His reflexes seemed far greater than they should have been and he smiled as they charged across the battlefield, cutting a path through the enemy that none of the others seemed capable of keeping up with. The Marked Men fought well, but not well enough. It wasn’t long before Parrish and Brogan were alone in a tide of the enemies.
Parrish breathed harshly, his lungs working like bellows. Brogan was at ease in comparison, his movements unaffected by exertion, his strikes as smooth as if he were merely chopping at weeds in the yard of his old home.
The home he’d shared with Nora and the children long ago, it seemed. The home that was gone, destroyed by his own actions, surely. The mountains moved and a dead god rose and whatever was left of his home in Stennis Brae was likely rubble, not that it mattered.
That home had been important once. His family had been important. His head throbbed with the loss of both, but he shook it off as best he could, and blocked a blow meant to take his head from his shoulders.
The horse under him collapsed.
He had no idea what had been done, but the animal stumbled and fell without a sound and in seconds the ravagers they fought were on the poor creature and it was not getting back up.
Brogan fell, and pushed himself away from the saddle and Parrish. The horde came in closer and attacked, but the armor he wore protected him from most of the blows and his sword did the rest. He should have been aching, exhausted and panting heavily, but none of that was true. None of that mattered. The energy kept pumping into him as he fought against the armored nightmares, his axe denting or cutting armor with each blow.
He was not falling, but there were so many of them. Sooner or later they would take him down.
Parrish rose up and let out a hoarse roar, his sword hacking brutally at one of the enemies, his eyes rolling with panic as he realized the exact same thing. The blows were easily deflected. The horseman drove forward on his mount and slammed into Parrish, forcing him down and under the hooves of the beast. The king of Mentath did not die gently, but was instead mangled as the steed pounded into him over and over, breaking bones, tearing skin and pulping muscles.
Parrish fell back and did not rise again.
Brogan moved on, nearly lost in a sea of horses and riders.
His heart hammered now, not because of exertion, but because of fear. The thought that he might fail had only been an abstract concept until now. Now, he had to find a way past the hordes serving the gods or he would never have a chance to exact his revenge. He needed that revenge, too. He needed to end the gods. It was all that mattered any more. That thought scared him almost as much as the notion of not having his satisfaction.
“Face me! Face me, you damned cowards!”
The gods did not answer, but more of the armored soldiers crushed toward him, a wave of men and horses determined to see the end of him.
Stanna
The war came on hard and fast and Stanna met it the same way. The Bitch cut deep again and again and she danced away from the worst of the blades. The enemy was well-armed and sported serious armor, but their protection made them slow. A blade bit into her shoulder, but not deep enough to stop her. She grunted, moved, brought the Bitch around, and drove the heavy blade into the visor of the thing facing her. The blade was true and rang against the back of the great helmet. The warrior fell back, dead. Stanna moved on, reaching out with her free hand to grab a horseman’s cloak and use it as a means of hauling him from his ride. By the time he hit the ground she had already killed him.
The next in line nearly took her head, but she ducked enough to survive the attempt.
Beside her Temmi screamed and slashed and managed not to get herself killed though her blade did not manage to inflict as much harm.
Tully slipped in, cut and retreated, her eyes wide and her face a study in controlled panic. There were joints in even the finest armor and Tully found them, driving her curved daggers in hard and then backing away before most of the enemies could retaliate. Most. She was already bleeding in several places, but like Stan
na, she managed to avoid fatal blows.
The slavers did what the slavers had always done. They attacked with sheer brute force and numbers. Rhinen led one faction, hammering at the enemies and managing not to get himself killed. Several of his followers were not as lucky and he wasted not so much as a breath on them. They lived or died as they had always lived or died. There was no time for anything else.
Argus proved what a man with a spear could do, bashing and stabbing and unseating his enemies in a constant dervish of activity. He was not alone. A dozen other spearmen worked with him and they worked more in unison than Rhinen and his group. That was one of the reasons Beron had always trusted and admired the man.
Beron was nowhere to be seen and that made her nervous. She didn’t much like the notion of him sneaking up on her when she wasn’t looking. There was nothing to be done for it at the moment.
A breeze was all the warning she had as one of the armored things raised a single-bladed axe over his head and hacked toward her skull. She brought the Bitch around and ducked in close. Her blade met his wrists, cutting deep and stopping the axe’s forward motion. His own strength did the rest and the bastard screeched as his hands fell free from his wrists. While he screamed, she used the pommel of the Bitch to dent his helmet into his skull. A return stroke cut deep into his neck and she moved on, looking to her left. Argus came close and impaled a man intent on attacking her. The spear bent but did not break under the mass of the thing that fell from the horse and then crashed into the ground, spear-tip buried deep into meat and armor alike.
He was still pulling the spear free when one of the hellish brutes rode him down. The hooves of the horse slammed into Argus and, as he staggered the rider’s shield edge shattered his skull.
Stanna managed to get out of the way of the same horse and rider, but it was close and she felt the bruising blow across her left shoulder blade as the shield smashed into her.
Tully vaulted onto the back of the horse and drove her dagger into the base of the rider’s neck before she fell free on the other side. It looked like she just stepped up, landed her killing blow and then stepped down on the other side. Stanna knew she’d have failed if she ever tried the same maneuver.
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