Blood Of Gods (Book 3) (44 page)

Yet fight we will.
His resolve grew as he watched his god calmly nurture his children. Patrick climbed down from the wagon and sought out the company of his Turncloaks, his brothers-in-arms.
If Ashhur is willing to sacrifice so much of himself, how can we do any less?

The Wardens reorganized the people into their formations, and soon the march began anew. Ahaesarus took the lead, his extremely long legs churning as he jogged, sword raised, ushering his wards onward while Ashhur loped behind him. Patrick found Duncan and retook his stallion, his knees throbbing as he climbed into the saddle. He exchanged a few casual remarks with Preston, Edward, and Tristan as they cantered, but his gaze kept finding its way back to his god. Ashhur looked like he might fade away right then and there. Patrick wished there were a steed large enough to carry him.

The caravan moved onward, the undead dragging their carcasses along, somehow keeping pace despite their stiffness. The sun crept low behind them, casting long shadows over the Gods’ Road. A few of the horses faltered, two of them snapping legs, forcing a shaking Ashhur to heal them. It seemed not even broken mounts could stop the march. They were near to Ashhur’s Bridge now, much too close to consider stopping.

The smoldering ruins of Paradise abruptly ended, replaced by fields of grass, dull green from the winter’s snow, and trees that were hearty despite their empty branches. The smoke that constantly seemed to envelop them all but disappeared. Patrick looked all around him, taking in his surroundings. After the desolation they had passed through over the last three days, he thought he’d never seen anything more beautiful.

Then the convoy came to a halt once more; only this time a tired grin stretched across Ashhur’s sallow face as he gazed upon the obstruction in the road. The wall of swaying undead parted, and the god stepped through them, trailed by his Wardens. Patrick shot Preston a look, and the two men followed.

The obstruction in the road was a group of what looked to be at least two hundred dark-skinned people. They were camped right in the center of the Gods’ Road, sitting around cookfires, wearing only their bloodstained smallclothes. Piles of mismatched armor, once worn by Karak’s soldiers, were stacked outside their small
clusters
. Their horses—only a handful of them—grazed lazily on the field of flattened grasses to the south of the road. The men of Ker all rose when they spotted the eastern-marching convoy, appearing pleased as they gazed up at Ashhur. Oddly enough, though they looked at the numerous undead with startled expressions, they didn’t withdraw in fear. It was almost as if seeing such horrors had become commonplace for them, which struck Patrick as particularly
discouraging
.

He scanned the assembly for a sign of his giant old friend, but Bardiya was nowhere to be seen.

Three of the Kerrians talked with the rest of their group and then approached Ashhur, meeting the deity halfway. All three dropped to their knees before him.

“Your Grace,” said the one in the middle, a tall youngster Patrick didn’t recognize. In fact, as he scanned the Kerrians’ faces in the dying sunlight, he realized he couldn’t identify any of them. Had it been so long since he’d traveled farther than the Black Spire? It didn’t seem like it.

Then again, the passage of time is fleeting when you don’t age.

He rode his stallion up to Ashhur’s side, and the three men of Ker turned their eyes to him. All three looked at him with suspicion, and two seemed repulsed by his appearance. Patrick frowned. It had been a long while since he’d experienced such a reaction; he’d almost forgotten how insulting it was. He wondered if they would have reacted the same way if Bardiya had been with them.

“Allay, Midoro, and Nusses—my children,” said Ashhur, thankfully drawing their attention away from Patrick. “Why are you blocking the road? We wish to pass.”

The one in the middle bowed low, his black skin gleaming in the waning light. “We were waiting for you, your Grace.”

“If you desire to join our ranks, I ask that you pack up your belongings, mount your steeds, and find a place among the column. The bridge bearing my name is but a few hours away, and we will ride through the night if need be to reach it.”

“Are you pursuing Karak, your Grace?” asked the one named Allay.

“Of course.”

“Then the bridge to the delta isn’t where you need to go.”

“Is that so?”

The one named Midoro, a bulky young man with a wide jaw and piercing hazel eyes, nodded. “It is, your Grace.” He pointed north, toward a lengthy backdrop of rolling hills that ended at a thick wood. “The god of the east went that way.”

Ashhur faced the direction in which Midoro pointed. His pale lips twisted into a grimace, and he shook his head.

“Of course,” the god said.

“Bardiya already ran off after him,” said Nusses. “He ordered the rest of us to go back home, but those you see here couldn’t bring ourselves to abandon him.”

“Wait,” said Patrick. “Bardiya is going after Karak on his own?”

Allay, Midoro, and Nusses nodded.

Ashhur seemed to mull over the men’s words for a moment before turning about and facing his legion of Wardens. “We will make camp here, with my children from Ker,” he said. “But only for an hour or two. Pass the message along to the others. There are no safe passages across the Rigon, north of the bridges, and the terrain is rocky and perilous. We will be greatly slowed.”

As the others dispersed, including the Turncloaks, Patrick trotted up to his deity. “I wish to go on ahead.”

“Do not worry for Bardiya,” said Ashhur. “My child knows what he is doing.”

“Are you sure of that, your Grace? What if he’s not in his right mind?”

Ashhur tilted his head forward. “I have felt him in my thoughts, my son. He has recaptured the grace he thought he lost. He is as complete now as he has ever been.” A sad smile came across the deity’s face. “However, if you wish to forge ahead, you may. The undead will find the footing treacherous in the forest. Form a party with the Master Warden, and search out my brother’s army. But you will only look—not engage. Not until the full of my force is with you.”

Patrick almost opened his mouth to protest, but decided against it. “Very well, your Grace.” He dropped to a knee, bowing low.

Ashhur placed a hand on his head and then turned away, heading back toward the swaying undead and the short-lived camp that was now being raised between them. He lingered there for a long while, staring up at the northern wood. He knew his desire to rush to Bardiya’s aid was rash. It was selfish.
He’s my friend. I don’t want to lose him too.

Gods knew he had lost enough already.

C
HAPTER

38

M
oira Elren was in a boiling rage as she raced toward Veldaren. The horrific images she’d seen the day before refused to leave her, a nightmare that haunted even her waking hours. She leaned forward in the saddle, gritted her teeth, and dug her heels into her horse’s flank, urging the animal to gallop faster. The pounding of hooves filled her ears as the Movers struggled to keep up with her frantic pace.

They exited the forest and entered the city from the south, passing by the Watchtower, the setting sun reflecting off its spire. Moira could see none of the City Watch roaming around the entrance to the tower, but that wasn’t surprising.
In every village and shantytown they’d delivered food to during the long journey north, men
of fighting age were a scarcity at best. She and her Movers had only seen a handful of roving bandits, and those disheveled men kept their distance when they caught sight of her four large companions and their steel. It seemed that in all of Neldar, only Catherine Brennan had rebelled against Karak’s demands and kept afloat what her husband’s family had built. The farther Moira traveled, the more her once seething hatred of the woman transformed into genuine respect.

Perhaps if Erznia had someone like Catherine leading them, I would not have found what I did.

She bore down, the drab gray buildings lining the South Road flashing by on either side. Tears of fury formed in her eyes as the memory crowded in.

The decision to visit Erznia had been an impulsive one. She hadn’t stepped foot in the settlement since she and Rachida had fled to Haven more than fifteen years ago, and the closer she drew to the hidden community within the trees, the more her excitement built. Even though the Moris had been subjected to great losses over the last couple years, those who remained had been like a surrogate family to her. To see Yenge, Alexander, Caleigh, Ebbe, Dimona, and Julian again would fill her heart with joy. To sit and share a drink with Oris, the scarred beast of a man with a heart of gold, would bring a smile to her face. She wanted nothing more than to relax, to recharge. Laurel Lawrence could wait a few days while she filled her belly with Yenge’s signature spiced lamb kabobs served over a bed of leeks and turnips . . . so long as the fall harvest had been plentiful.

Yet what awaited her there was not relief, but horror. The gate was smashed, and half the elegant cottages inside Erznia’s fifteen-foot-tall wall of pine and steel had been put to the torch. The causeway through the center of the hidden township was torn up, marred with the impressions of boot heels. The lavish gardens that had been a staple of each family’s land were wilted and dead, crushed by the now melted winter snows.

But worst of all were the bodies. They were everywhere, some lining the side of the road, most strung up upside down from trees and the roof overhangs of the homes that weren’t reduced to ashes. The corpses were stiff, their flesh parchment thin. Many of their stomachs had been opened, and the animals of the wild, let in through the smashed front gate, had picked through the remains. The upper torsos of those dangling were reduced to bone and sinew; many of their heads and arms had been chewed off altogether. It was a dreadful sight, and for a long moment Moira just sat there atop her horse while her Movers set out to investigate the scene, staring in disbelief at the carnage.

It wasn’t until Rodin persuaded her to ride toward the northwest corner of the settlement, where the estate of House Mori resided, that she broke from her stupor. Whereas other parts of the village featured a sort of macabre order, here was disarray. It looked like the cadavers remained as they were when they died, numerous arrow shafts jutting from their long-dead hides. Moira dismounted and examined the one closest to the estate’s entrance. It was female, with a faded yellow dress and a head of dark, curly hair gone pale from exposure to the elements. Her flesh was ravaged, half her face gnawed away by both time and beast, but it was clear who the woman had been. It was Yenge, Vulfram Mori’s widow, now joined with her husband in Afram, if such a place existed at all. Moira leaned closer, examining the arrows protruding from the dead woman’s hide: one in the neck, two in the flank, three jutting from the lower abdomen, one in the eye. The rest of the deceased had been pelted in much the same way, with just as great an abundance of arrows. Karak’s Army had come here, and for whatever reason had killed
everyone
.

Women and children, young and old—none were spared, not even the village’s Magister. It was a thousand times worse than the scene she had run across in Omnmount. Moira had thrown her head back to the heavens and screamed.

Suddenly, the need to find the last surviving Lawrence became all the more vital.

And now here she was, back in Veldaren, the city where she had spent much of her youth, looking for a single woman in a city of presumably thousands of females. She rode and rode, hoping to run across one of Karak’s representatives, no matter who he or she might be, she wanted to watch blood cascade from the wounds of one of the god’s faithful.

“Whoa, Moira, slow down!” shouted Danco from behind her. “We must gather ourselves!”

Reluctantly she pulled back on the reins and swiveled her steed around. The Movers had stopped riding and were now sitting atop their horses and gazing with apparent wonder at their surroundings. Although Port Lancaster was a sprawling city in and of itself, most of the buildings erected were humble wooden constructions that had ample space between them. Not so in Veldaren, a city designed by a god. It was the most densely populated location in all of Neldar, housing twice the residents Port Lancaster did, necessitating tightly packed buildings of gray stone that loomed over the road like ancient guardians in formation. And more had been added since Moira had last seen the place, which made simply riding down the road a study in claustrophobia.

Moira trotted up to her men, examining their expressions. Rodin was awestruck, looking around as if he felt small and didn’t like that feeling one bit. Tabar scowled, fingers restlessly tapping the hilt of his sword, and Danco laughed nervously. Gull, as usual, was expressionless. Even the fading sunlight reflecting in his gray-brown eyes did nothing to enliven him.

Rodin shook his head as Moira approached. “This is strange.”

“What is?” asked Moira.

“This city. So large and intimidating . . . so empty.”

“Empty, indeed,” said Tabar. “Where are the people?”

Moira turned about and glanced down the length of the South Road. There wasn’t even a hint of movement. She looked to the buildings abutting her—a mason’s shop on one side, a silversmith on the other—and saw that their shutters were open, the windows dark. It was only in the apartments above the shops that she caught sight of what might have been a pair of eyes, staring out from the blackness within. But those eyes quickly disappeared. Then she noticed that no smoke came from the many chimneys, even though it was cold. Again she thought of Omnmount, of the people hiding within the cabins in the border settlements.

“It’s the same as before,” she said. “They’re locked away. Afraid.”

“Of what?” asked Danco, his voice rising slightly.

Moira thought of the scene in Erznia.

“Of Karak’s faithful, I’d wager.” She cocked her head and grinned. “Have any of you seen the castle before?”

“No,” said Gull flatly.

Of course not. Stupid question.
She pointed up the road, where the major artery split, one continuing farther north, the other
veering
to the right. “Well, the Castle of the Lion is right down there. You can see the towers over the buildings. What do you say we pay the honorable King Eldrich a visit? Perhaps he can tell us what we don’t know.”

“Perhaps,” Rodin said. “However, I hope this goes better than the last time we went to meet with a man of great importance.”

Moira sighed. “Me too.”

“I also think proceeding with caution instead of riding flat out would be best,” added Tabar.

They all agreed, clomping down the road in formation, with Moira and Rodin in front, Tabar and Danco in the rear, and Gull between them. Tabar expressed regret that Willer had died, but only because the energetic young Mover had always acted as their forward scout. Moira couldn’t help but shiver at how detached they were when it came to the loss of their friend.

The curve in the road neared, and Moira’s heart began to race. She didn’t know what to expect once they reached the castle, and that lack of knowing played evil games with her mind. She tensed, feeling the weight of her twin swords as they bounced against her hips. Her hands flexed inadvertently around her horse’s reins. She could barely feel the cold wind that blew against her face. A bird cawed overhead.

“Halt,” said Gull. They were mere feet from the bend in
the road.

“What is it?” asked Rodin.

“We’re close,” Moira said. “Let’s just get to the castle and out of the open. It’s making me nervous.”

Gull put up a finger, his head cocked to the side. “Do you
hear that
?”

At first Moira heard nothing, but then she noticed a faint undercurrent beneath the wind and creaking stone—a barely noticeable
tink, tink, tink
, followed by another bird’s caw.

“Conflict,” Danco said. He didn’t seem so uneasy any longer, and he actually smiled.

“But where?” asked Rodin, looking about.

Gull stretched out his arm in an exaggerated manner and pointed. “To the north. Come, we must ride.”

“We should go to the castle,” said Moira firmly.

“We will,” Gull replied. “However, if you are correct and the people are hiding within their homes, it means oppression is occurring here just as it did in Omnmount. If that’s the case, it’s possible the skirmish we hear is an act of rebellion. Would you, Moira, the woman who gave heaps of Karak’s liberated food to the starving, turn away from those in need?”

Moira nodded sharply. “Of course not. You’re right.”

“Then we must move, albeit cautiously.”

Again Moira nodded, and she took the lead as she guided her Movers along the South Road.

The road to the castle passed by to the right, dark and ominous in the twilight. The structures around her became taller, more densely situated as she approached the center of the city. Now she could see actual people watching her from above, mostly women, peering out their windows. Moira didn’t focus on them, didn’t acknowledge their presence. She simply urged her mount to pick up speed.

They veered around Veldaren’s massive central fountain and continued onto the North Road. There the sounds of conflict
heightened
, and Moira could plainly hear actual human voices screaming. Her heart began to pound in her chest, and this time she allowed one hand to slip from the reins and grab hold of a sword.

She would clearly need it soon.

She caught movement out of the corner of her eye and veered sharply to the right, bolting down an alley between a pair of boxy stone buildings. Moira didn’t think; she simply kept her eyes straight ahead until she exited the alley. Then she pulled up, forcing the Movers to do the same, their horses skidding to a halt on the slate walk. Danco nearly fell from his saddle. The screams surrounding them were all encompassing.

Moira’s eyes bulged in her head as she gaped at what lay before her. The alley emptied out into a wide square lined with smaller, more humble domiciles. She knew this place. The locals called it Haremdale, which many of those who had come from northern Neldar called home; it was a sort of city within the city, where those of like occupation and heritage could gather together and speak of how much more difficult it was living here than it had been in
Felwood
, Hailen, Winterhall, Stonybrook, and the like. It was where nearly every resident had hair the same color silver as
Moira’s
, with eyes just as pale blue. They would toil on the streets, sell furs and junk from the north, and laugh and drink their odd green wormwood concoctions in six small taverns. In truth, being here had always made her uncomfortable, for given the populace’s similar appearance to Moira’s own family, it was like being surrounded by an endless sea of Crestwells.

Now, instead of drunken songs, she heard shrieks and the clang of steel, and all that she saw was pandemonium. Also, there were
men
. Lots and lots of men. At least a hundred flooded the square, some exiting the buildings, dragging helpless women behind them, some clashing with other women. There were women fighting women as well. It was a flurry of swords and daggers that was dizzying to watch.

Gull urged his horse a few steps forward, gazing at the bedlam with cold, calculating eyes. They were off to the side of the conflict and had yet to be noticed. Moira followed the stoic man’s line of sight, and looked on as a grimy man ran a sword through a woman with short blond hair. She fell to the cobbles, clutching the gaping wound that opened her from neck to belly and crying out. The grimy man quickly jammed the tip of his sword through her ear, silencing her.

Rage built up in Moira, and it only doubled when she saw that Gull made no move to protect these poor women. The other three sellswords were just as passive, remaining behind their leader, awaiting orders. They were obviously itching for action, with their legs shaking and fingers clenching and unclenching, but they did nothing.

“What are you waiting for?” yelled Moira.

Gull shook his head and held up a single finger, his gaze returning to the battle in the square. Rodin shrugged in her direction, but he didn’t move otherwise. Another woman fell, and then another and another. Blood coated the cobbles.

“Caution is best,” said Gull.

It was the first time her sellswords hadn’t jumped at one of her commands, and her blood began to race. “Fuck off then!” Moira shouted. She kicked her horse’s flank, startling the beast and dashing forward, drawing both her swords as she did so. Gull shouted for her to stop, but she ignored him. Her screaming had caught the attention of the combatants. A group of nine men turned toward her, appearing confused. They were distracted enough by her rapid approach that two of them had their throats slit from behind by
dagger
-wielding women. The other seven were then jumped by women with fists flying, teeth biting, weapons slashing. Moira grinned and leapt from her horse, landing on an open patch of road, with both swords held out wide.