Blood Of Gods (Book 3) (41 page)

“I see.” Bardiya hung his head and rubbed his eyes. “A woman. Children. Glory and praise. And for these selfish desires, you would betray the god who created you?”

Ki-Nan opened his mouth, then closed it and remained silent.

“I should kill you,” Bardiya said. “You have no place in Paradise any longer. What you have done to me, done to all of us . . . is unforgivable.” His hand clenched into a monstrous fist around the hilt of his sword.

“Please, brother, no!” His old friend clambered to his knees before him. “You preached of forgiveness your whole life. Please find a way to give me that. You asked once if my intentions were pure, and they are! Is there anything more pure than love? Than dedicating yourself to a wife, to your children?”

Bardiya lifted his sword. “You speak to the wrong man,
Ki-Nan
. Ashhur has abandoned me as you have abandoned him. I am his weapon now, nothing more, and what you have done is
unforgivable
.”

“Ashhur hasn’t abandoned you,” Ki-Nan insisted, eyes widening at the rising sword. “You—you’re strong as ever!”

Bardiya shook his head. “Ashhur robbed me of my youth. I am but an old thing now, my outside rotting as quickly as
my fait
h.”

At that, Ki-Nan cocked his head. “Old?” he asked, his voice still shaking. “How so?”

“Look at me. Look at the wrinkles in my face. Look at the whiteness of my hair. My body aches as it decays. The only act that stifles it now . . . is violence.”

“You aren’t making sense,” said Ki-Nan. “You look the same now as you ever have.”

Bardiya started to argue, then realized he saw no lie in the words. He bent over, peering at the darkly shimmering puddle of water that had gathered between his feet. A moment later came another flash of lightning, and for the briefest moment he saw his face. It was old, wrinkled, and ugly.

But in his gut, he felt that knot of certainty.

The image was a lie.

Come the next flash of light, he held his eyes wide open, and there he saw himself, flesh dark and smooth, his hair curly and black as it had ever been. There were no creases around his eyes, no deep grooves in his brow.

The demon . . . it showed me what it wanted me to see.

Bardiya looked on the cowering Ki-Nan, and his own words echoed in his mind.
Unforgivable
. . . How many times had he insisted to his people no action went beyond forgiveness? No action could prevent them grace? But here he was, sword high, denying those very words. And still Ashhur was with him. Ashhur was there . . . as was the certainty in his gut. The revelation of the lies. Wardens had that power, given to them by Ashhur. Did he now have it as well? But the weight of the blood he’d spilled hung about his neck. The vision he’d seen, the image of himself old and breaking, he’d felt every bit of it. Taking the lives of so many, it wasn’t Ki-Nan he’d seen as unforgivable. It was himself. He’d seethed and raged and declared himself abandoned . . . all while Ashhur remained.

He dropped to his knees, releasing the sword in the process and allowing it to clatter away from him. Ki-Nan backed toward the edge of the chasm, the water trickling over the side dripping on his head. Bardiya thought of how hard he’d struggled to be perfect, to stand tall above his people. First Family of his god, wiser than his parents, wiser than Ashhur himself . . . he’d thought himself crushed by his own fall from grace, but he was a fool. He was only human. Even with his great height, he’d barely had any distance at all to fall.

Another bolt of lightning struck, and his bones and joints ceased to ache.

“Ki-Nan, my friend, will you forgive me?” he asked.

The frightened man’s eyes narrowed as if he didn’t believe
him. “Why?
”

“Because our ability to forgive, to see the faults in our brothers and sisters and still love them, is all that separates us from the animals that roam the wilds.
That
was the lesson Ashhur meant to teach, because he knew we would eventually experience the strife we now face.
That
is the reason he created Paradise—to nurture those aspects of ourselves, to give them a chance to grow before we must rely on them.”

“Even if that’s true,” Ki-Nan said, “you’ve done nothing for me to forgive.”

Bardiya shook his head.

“I declared you my brother no longer, as if my love for you has limits. As if I were a cowardly, bitter, selfish man. Some things cannot be undone, but at least with this, let me try.”

Ki-Nan looked speechless. He took a step forward, and he swallowed down a lump in his throat.

“Even after the lies?” he asked.

To that, Bardiya laughed.

“I have spent the past years lying to myself,” he said. “I certainly won’t condemn you for yours.”

The man paused a moment; then he smiled and wrapped his arms around Bardiya’s neck.

“You’re still a bloody fool,” he said. “But damn it, I’m tired of all the lies and secrecy, and even with all their fat combined, the
Conningtons
are half the man you are.”

Bardiya rose to his feet, and he felt lighter than air. To think he’d put the weight of Ashhur’s teachings on his shoulders, to think he’d believed himself the only one capable of giving wisdom to his people. But when presented with the need to forgive, forgive others, forgive himself, he’d failed so thoroughly that for the first time in ages he felt he had so much more to learn. Years ago, such a revelation would have horrified him. Not anymore.

“So what should I do?” Ki-Nan asked, stirring Bardiya from his thoughts.

Bardiya put his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“This woman you love, these children of yours, you should go to them,” he said. “But only after you do whatever you can to ensure their safety. I think you owe them, and Ashhur, at least that much.”

Ki-Nan hesitated a moment.

“And if I die before seeing them again?”

“Every breath may be our last, be it in war or in the most peaceful of days. Make each breath matter. Give each one meaning. Who are you, Ki-Nan? Who is the man beneath it all? Are you one who would flee to his family and pray from afar you’ll be safe? Or are you a man who will fight to make it come to be?”

There was no question, not when put that way. Ki-Nan struck his chest with a fist, a gleam entering his eye.

“I’m a man who will fight.”

By the time they exited the basin, the drizzle had stopped, and dawn began to stretch its crimson fingers across the cloud-filled sky. The warriors of Ker were already awake, shuffling about their temporary camp, stretching their sore backs and moaning. Small cookfires were flaring, and the smoke from the damp wood filled the air. Bardiya gathered them all together, nearly four hundred warriors who had never known conflict until less than a week ago.

“Brothers!” the giant proclaimed, and his voice carried over the rocky cliffs. He pointed north. “Beyond those hills lies a scourge that wishes to rip from us the very love that each of us has felt for all our lives. We must not allow that to happen! Karak is out there, brothers, and he is running. Ashhur has already proven to be his better. It is now for us to finish the task our creator started.”

The crowd before him began to murmur.

“Will we face them alone?” someone asked. It sounded like Tuan Littlefoot.

“Alone?” Bardiya shouted. “We will stand between the eastern god and passage into his kingdom, but not alone. We will face his forces to preserve our way of life, but not alone. We will ensure
none
of our loved ones will ever suffer such blight again, and when we do, we will not be alone. We may die. Every last one of us. But we will not die alone. We have truth on our side. We have
love
! And should our pure hearts cease beating, we will find splendor in the Golden Forever. This is what Ashhur has promised you. This is what he has guaranteed!”

The murmuring grew in volume, but the people seemed hesitant. Ki-Nan then stepped to the foreground and faced his brethren.

“Come now, my brothers!” he bellowed. “You have tasted battle before, and you
won
! Onward we march! For glory! For freedom! For
Ashhur
!”

“For Ashhur!” the throng shouted in reply, and though it was slightly less than enthusiastic, Bardiya knew that was the most he could hope for given the certain death they faced. They’d march needing a miracle, but it seemed they walked in an age of miracles, and for once Bardiya felt free from the doubts that had dug their claws into his heart so deeply.

C
HAPTER

35

T
he morning was warm and filled with lingering smoke as Velixar watched the soldiers dismantle their tents and don their armor. These brave souls, who had fought so valiantly not seven days before, were beaten and weary, nearly to a man. Their movements were laborious, their expressions dour, and their lips sagged with disgust as they tore into their meager tack—all that was left of their provisions after the supply wagons had been set to the torch. Wolves had taken the rest. The tall trees surrounding them made them appear small, like squirrels desperately foraging for nuts before winter’s wrath fell upon them. All the while, the animals of the forest chattered and scurried all around. Flocks of birds soared overhead, heading back north.

Winter is all but over. We should be taking stock of our bounty, not licking our wounds.

Velixar felt for each of them. This was supposed to have been their moment of glory. The two years of preparation, the long march into Paradise, and the siege of Mordeina should have ended with Ashhur beaten and his children liberated. Instead, Karak’s Army had fled back to their kingdom across the river, their once mighty force decimated by death and desertion. Velixar’s heart thrummed in his chest, seemingly loud enough to act as the drum cadence for the march ahead. He had never dealt well with failure—not when he was Jacob Eveningstar, and certainly not now, as the swallower of demons. The reality of their situation irritated him, and his anger boiled over. The smoldering landscape a few hundred yards behind them, charred and blackened by Karak as the god set fire to Paradise while they tramped through this once pristine land, did nothing to lift his spirits.

Ashhur’s raising of the dead had caught them off guard. Even days after, the images still fresh in his mind, it didn’t seem real. The
scale
of what Ashhur had accomplished was astonishing. So many thousands of undead, so many tons of rotting flesh, all turned against them. It was no wonder the soldiers who remained were so dismayed.

I should have known.
He fingered the pendant dangling beneath his new cloak.
I should have seen Ashhur’s plot the moment we stepped within Mordeina’s walls. The Beast of a Thousand Faces would have understood.

That, more than anything, formed the crux of his anger. He could point blame at Ashhur, at the Master Warden, even at the mutant Patrick DuTaureau, but this didn’t stave off the fact that he, Velixar, had been caught unaware. The best of humanity had been tricked by a naïve, peace-loving deity.
“Your ego will be your downfall,”
Karak had once told him. And so it had come to pass. He knew he had failed his chosen god, even if Karak did not c
astigate him
.

A dark shadow appeared beside him, and Velixar glanced over to see the Lord Commander standing there, his fingers clenching and unclenching. His black breastplate was dented and scratched; the chainmail covering his right arm, bent and split. His good eye stared straight ahead, intent on his charges, while the milky left one seemed to glow within the nest of scars that marred his face.
Malcolm’s
mouth hung open, and he breathed deeply. Velixar knew the man well enough to understand that he wished to say something, but he remained silent. Malcolm Gregorian knew his place in the world. He would only speak with the High Prophet of Karak after Velixar acknowledged his presence.

“What is it, Lord Commander?” he asked.

Malcolm cleared his throat. “High Prophet, the men are hungry. We have been on the Gods’ Road for six days now. Should we not have come across our resupply wagons by now? They were due to arrive a month ago, yet still there is no sign.”

“I don’t know,” Velixar answered. This was a problem he had been pondering since long before the assault on Mordeina. No birds had arrived from Omnmount, and though supplies were supposed to have arrived every ten days, they had received no aid for nearly two full months. A part of him wondered if some blight had taken place in the staging grounds, or some of the treachery Karak had said he saw in his visions, but he quickly quashed that contemplation. There was no room in his mind for any more thoughts of failure.

“Wagons or no, we progress as we have,” he said. “We will be home soon enough either way. The snows have passed, and the days are warming. Have the men forage for nuts if it comes to that, and those strong enough should go hunting when we make camp. They will have to make do.”

“Yes, High Prophet.”

“Is that all?”

Malcolm shifted his feet. “No, High Prophet. The Quellan are restless. Chief Shen is adamant that his Ekreissar take no part in our struggles any longer.”

“He told you this?”

“Yes,” Malcolm said with a nod.

“When?”

“This morning, as I was making my rounds in the minutes before the sun rose.”

Velixar frowned.
Of course they wish to depart us. The Quellan are proud. They deal with failure as horribly as I do.
That they had chosen each night to make their camp far away from the human soldiers was proof enough of how they felt about the situation. That knowledge doubled his irritation over the fact that the elves had been among the first to flee Mordeina when the dead stood up and began fighting.
Karak will punish them for this. If they turn against the pact they agreed to, when we storm back into Paradise and bring Ashhur to his knees, they will receive nothing in return. Their people should count themselves lucky if Karak simply lets them live.

“High Prophet,” said Malcolm, “what will we do about this?”

Velixar’s brow furrowed, and he tapped a finger against his pendant. “Where is our god now?”

Malcolm held his chin high. “I spotted mighty Karak lingering on the edge of the forest, gazing toward the Gods’ Road.”

“Very well. Go back to Shen. Tell the thickheaded oaf that the
Divinity of the East demands to speak with him. If he and the
Ekreissar
wish to turn their backs on us, let them tell the deity himself.”

“Yes, High Prophet.”

Malcolm bowed, the massive sword Darkfall clanking in its sheath on his back, and then the man marched away. Velixar watched him until he disappeared behind a thick copse of evergreens, and a sense of longing filled him. Malcolm was a good man, a
faithful
man. He was one of the few who had showed no fear when the dead rose. If they’d only had a thousand Malcolms at their disposal, Mordeina would have fallen.

He grunted, adjusted his cloak, and began to walk through the bustling cluster of soldiers. Eyes rose to meet his, but they quickly turned away, wary of his presence. It was a reaction that had grown all the more prevalent since his massive displays of power. A sense of disconnection began to wash over him.
I am no longer of their ilk. I am closer to the gods than to humankind. They realize this.

Karak was standing alone at the head of a long stretch of grassland when Velixar found him. The Gods’ Road lingered five hundred feet below them. The deity’s eyes were fixed on the west, gazing down the expanse of packed dirt that snaked into the horizon. Both sides of the road were blackened wasteland, where small fires still burned in the hearts of the husks of trees, the end result of Karak’s godly influence. Each sunset, while the soldiers set up camp, Karak raised his hands and instantly set the landscape ablaze. That hellish ruin stretched for as far as the eye could see behind them, culminating at the Wooden Bridge over the Corinth River, which the god had destroyed after his army crossed.

Velixar sidled up to his chosen god. Karak glanced down slightly, a frown on his lips. The deity then looked south for a moment before bringing his attention back to the smoldering western expanse.

“My Lord, we must speak,” said Velixar.

“They are coming,” Karak said, as if he hadn’t heard.

The High Prophet gazed up at his god. “Who is coming, my Lord?”

“My brother and his children. I sense him as strongly as if he were standing beside me. The dead are with him.”

Velixar was taken aback. He had expected Ashhur to remain in Mordeina and pick up the pieces after the invasion, to coddle his children as always. He’d never thought the weak-minded god would pursue them.

“Why did you not sense him before, my Lord?” he asked.

Karak’s lips twisted into a grimace. “He was not this close before. We are going too slowly. A journey that has taken us seven days he has completed in three.”

“But how?”

“Soldiers require rest, High Prophet,” said Karak, his frown deepening. “Wardens require much less, and they can heal their wards and horses when exhaustion threatens to topple them. As for the dead . . . they require no rest at all.”

“Oh.” Velixar pursed his mouth and peered at the span of the Gods’ Road running east. “How far behind are they?”

“A day. A single day.”

Velixar slapped at his leg. “Then it matters not, my Lord. We will arrive at Ashhur’s Bridge before this day leaves us. Once we have crossed into the delta, we will set up a defense within the swamp.”

“No,” said the deity, anger churning in his voice. “That we cannot do.”

“Why not?”

Karak raised a hand and pointed to the lands on the other side of the road, above which thick black storm clouds were just beginning to disperse. “Another force approaches from the south,” he said. “I have felt them as strongly as I feel my brother. Though I cannot discern their numbers, the presence I feel is monstrous. There seem to be thousands of them.”

“A force from the south?” Velixar chewed on the statement for a moment, and then his heart sank. “Your brother’s dark-skinned children have come into the fray.”

Gravely, Karak nodded. “Led by the giant Gorgoros. Do you see that trace of black on the horizon, beneath the storm clouds? That is the remains of their cookfires. They are only three miles away and advancing quickly. They will reach the Gods’ Road in less than
two hours
.”

Damn you, Darakken,
Velixar thought. Then he puffed out his chest, trying to force his old confidence back to the forefront. “It matters not, my Lord. No matter their numbers, our soldiers have more training than the Kerrians. We must meet them head on. We must
crush
them.”

Karak shook his head. “As magnificent as that sounds, High Prophet, it is a course we cannot take. To meet the Kerrians in battle will allow Ashhur to gain ground on us. I do not wish for my children to face a two-front battle when they have already lost
so much.”

“What of your power?” Velixar asked. “You struck low the walls of Mordeina with a single spell. Could you not do the same to those from Ker?”

“And leave myself weakened for when my brother arrives?” Karak asked. “No. I have something better planned, something that will buy us needed time.”

“Then what do you have planned, my Lord?” asked Velixar.

At that moment, a rustling sound came from behind them. Velixar swiveled around to see Aerland Shen, dressed in his black scaly armor, exit the forest and approach them. His two black swords were crisscrossed over his back. The thickly built elf was nearly upon them by the time Karak turned.

“What is the meaning of this?” Shen asked in his garbled version of the common tongue. “Why was my presence demanded?”

Velixar opened his mouth to reply, but it was Karak who spoke.

“I have heard of your decision to leave my ranks,” the god said, his voice booming. Velixar’s eyes widened in surprise that the deity had already known, but he shouldn’t have been caught off guard. Karak was a god, after all. The deity reached out and snatched the Ekreissar chief by the front of his armor “That will not do.”

Shen shrank away from the god, his pointed ears twitching. It was the first time Velixar had seen the elf afraid.

“We . . . have lost . . . ” Shen began. Then, “It is useless . . . to go on with this charade . . . ”

Karak shoved the elf backward. Shen fell to the ground and slid on his rump. The deity gestured to the swords strapped to his back.

“Tell me, Aerland Shen, son of Moerlind and Lorientas, what are the names of those weapons you wield?”

Shen twisted his head to the side as if thinking of the correct words. “Salvation and Condemnation.”

“Ah, powerful names for powerful blades. And tell me, Chief Shen, how many have you slain with those swords? How many were given the gift of the swords’ names?”

“I don’t know. One hundred? Two hundred? Too many
to count.
”

“Is that so? And how many of those countless numbers did you slay before this conflict between Ashhur and I began?”

In answer to that, Shen snapped his lips shut and looked away.

“I thought not,” said Karak. “You never killed a soul until our pact was sealed. The Quellan like to proclaim themselves a proud and powerful race, regaling the tales of their conquests, and yet none of your kind has seen war for over a thousand years. I offered what your goddess did not: the opportunity for your people to reclaim lands that had once belonged to you, and now you wish to abandon your promise to me?” Karak stood up tall and swung his arm out wide as if presenting the scorched terrain to the elf as a gift. “Look at the devastation. Do you truly think I would allow you to turn against our pact and suffer no consequences? Should you leave, you will have doomed Quellasar to the same fate as Paradise, and when I am through with you, none of your kind shall remain.”

Shen narrowed his eyes. “You speak of victory, yet it is we who flee east. Why should we believe your brother will not hold your head in time?”

Karak’s eyes narrowed, and his fury seemed to make him taller.

“My brother has raised the dead, and in doing so, he has changed the rules of the game. I will give him a gift just as deadly. Look upon it, and then decide if my doom is still so certain as you imply.”

Karak held his arms out to his sides and threw his head back. The brightness of his eyes increased tenfold. A gleaming layer of darkened light swirled around him. Aerland Shen struggled to his feet and spun in place as the forest behind them became a flurry of snapping branches and animalistic grunts. Velixar’s movements echoed the chief’s. The surprised and frightened shouts of the
soldiers
back at camp reached his ears. It was as if the forest were collapsing in on itself.