Blood Of Gods (Book 3) (48 page)

In his hand, his own glowing sword faded until it became warped steel once more. His thoughts dulled, his vision became cloudy. Karak’s sword pulled out of him, leaving behind a dark, shadowy afterimage that slowly dispersed into nothingness. Bardiya teetered on his knees like a reed in the wind, and the pain that filled him washed away. He felt his heart stop beating—he actually
felt
it—and his eyes rolled until they stared at the bright afternoon sky. Then his eyes closed, his body pitched forward, and he struck the ground face first with a crunch.

“Ashhur,” he breathed, the word inaudible to his own ears, “remember me.”

Always and forever, my child.

Bardiya rolled onto his back, body flopping as if in resistance to his every order. Karak and Jacob towered over him, staring down. No words on their lips. Just cold anger. It seemed strange to him, that anger. As he felt the life fading from him, felt the world collapsing inward, their anger inspired only pity in his motionless heart.

Bardiya?

The sky was opening. He saw golden light, felt his body separating, his presence expanding. Even the sound of Ashhur’s mighty, crestfallen bellow from miles away could do nothing to stifle his wonder.

Do not grieve for me, my god. I understand now. It is so, so beau—

C
HAPTER

41

F
or a fleeting moment, the war almost ended.

From his hiding spot within the trees on the other side of the river, Ahaesarus watched the giant Gorgoros battle Karak. Patrick DuTaureau, Preston the Turncloak, Warden Judah, Allay Loros, and the twelve others who had formed their advance scouting party gawked at the clash with eyes wide. It seemed none of them, Ahaesarus included, dared to so much as breathe.

They saw the giant hit his knees, Karak stalk toward him, and Bardiya’s sword begin to glow. They looked on as the spiritual leader of Ker attacked with a vengeance, somehow beating the deity back with blow after vicious blow. They gaped as Karak fell to the ground and the giant lifted his radiant sword, preparing to strike it through the god’s skull, only to be yanked away by oily tendrils of shadow. Then they watched in horror as Karak sliced the giant through from shoulder to chest.

Bardiya’s sword dimmed and he fell, his life extinguished.

Not a moment later, Ashhur’s distant, mournful cry added to the miasma of despair.

“No!” shouted Patrick. The deformed man flexed his massive arms, his sloped forehead crunching downward and wrinkling as tears streamed from his eyes. He reached for the sword strapped to his back and took a menacing step forward, ready to burst from their secluded spot and charge across the crumbling bridge.
Ahaesarus
grabbed his forearm and squeezed. Patrick’s head whipped around, spraying tears like mist from a waterfall.

“Do not,” said Ahaesarus, trying to keep his tone even.

Patrick slapped his hand away. “Don’t tell me what to do!” he shouted, his shoulders rising and falling with each rasping breath.

“He’s . . . he’s gone,” whispered Allay. He ground his teeth together.

“Listen to me,” Ahaesarus told them, stepping back so he could address them all. “There is nothing out there for you but death. You witnessed the giant’s fate. Don’t let that be yours as well.”

“His name was
Bardiya
,” snapped Patrick. The malformed man then turned to the others. “We go now!” he shouted. “Let Karak try to defeat all of us at once!”

Before Ahaesarus could say anything more, the other men lifted their swords to the sky and bellowed. Patrick tore away from the Master Warden, slamming through the brush like a raging bull. The others followed him, all but Warden Judah, who remained at Ahaesarus’s side. Judah glanced at him, uncertainty showing in his smooth features.

“They cannot cross,” Ahaesarus told him before scowling and chasing after the men. It took mere moments to leave the cover of the forest, and the broad stretch of the cliff face stretched out before him. With his long strides, he easily caught up with the one at t
he bac
k of the pack, the Turncloak Preston, snatching him by the armor and using his superior strength to toss the older man to the ground. Then another man went down, then another and another, rolling on the gravelly earth, their anger abated by surprise. Behind him, Judah further kicked the now prone men, keeping them down.

Patrick was the first to step foot on the bridge. It was a wide structure that looked to be made of solid granite and sandstone, but it was no longer stable. Half of its northern face had crumbled, raining dust and debris. At the middle section, large chunks of the earthen bridge had already fallen, leaving behind a dangerously sloped surface that threatened to drop the charging men directly into the rapids below. The pursuers ran with their swords, axes, and spears held high, wounded animal cries roaring from their throats, oblivious to the threat.

Ahaesarus came to a skidding stop at the edge of the bridge. Only five had rushed the crumbling structure; everyone else had been successfully thwarted. Of the five who had made it, only one now dashed without care—Midoro, one of the Kerrians. The others seemed to have lost confidence in their spur-of-the-moment attack. Patrick, in particular, was teetering back and forth, his sword resheathed, his uneven legs spread wide as the bridge shuddered beneath him.

From the other side of the river came the sound of laughter.

The Master Warden lifted his gaze. Karak and his prophet stood in front of the giant Gorgoros’s corpse, and it was the god who laughed. Karak’s eyes blazed gold, Velixar’s red. Though the deity stood twice as tall as the First Man of Dezrel, to Ahaesarus, in that moment, the human was much more frightening.

They outstretched their arms and began chanting. The uneven bridge began to tremble.

“All of you, to me!” Ahaesarus shouted, dread filling him. “Quickly now, come! There isn’t time!”

Patrick’s panic-filled eyes found his, and the hunchback pivoted on the balls of his feet, his uneven gait carrying him back across the failing structure. A great
creak
sounded, followed by a horrific splintering. Huge sections of the bridge broke off, plummeting
seventy feet
and crashing into the river, shattering as they struck the rapid’s jagged rocks. Allay Loros was the first to reach safety, followed by another of the Turncloaks, a boy named Tristan, and then a slender, brown-haired youth named Tosh. Patrick, with his uneven stride, was still twenty feet away; Midoro had passed him and was now halfway across, not slowing down, slip-sliding along the pitched section of bridge while still wailing his battle cry.

With a final, violent crack, the bridge fully collapsed. In the distance, Midoro tumbled along with heavy sections of granite, his ax spinning in the air while he toppled, head over heels, like a leaf in autumn.

Closer to Ahaesarus, not ten feet away, Patrick scuttled along the rapidly dropping slope, eyes wide with terror, his misshapen face scrunched. The only sound was the terrible shattering of the bridge. Patrick leapt forward, powerful arms outstretched, thick hands grasping at air. Without thinking, Ahaesarus reached for the falling man. Their palms met, Patrick’s fingers wrapping around Ahaesarus’s with such strength that it felt like the Master Warden’s bones would be crushed.

The bridge completely fragmented, coming fully detached from the side of the cliff. Patrick fell along with it. Ahaesarus held on for dear life, Patrick’s weight wrenching and unbearable. The Master Warden dropped to his knees, then flat on his chest, his shoulders stretched to their limit. Patrick’s momentum caused him to swing inward and slam against the rock face, send
ing a jolt down Ahaesarus’s spine. He cried out in anguish as
DuTaureau
dangled in his grasp. Patrick’s eyes were downcast, as were
Ahaesarus’s
, watching the remnants of the bridge crash into the violently flowing Rigon.

Hands were on him then, many of them, tugging on Ahaesarus’s clothes, pulling him backward. Sharp stones and debris cut into his stomach as he was dragged across the ground, but his grip on Patrick’s hand remained true. Finally, the others succeeded in yanking Ahaesarus back far enough that the hunchback could clutch the many raised stones, pulling himself up and onto the ledge. When he finally reached safety, Patrick collapsed on his side and panted. Ahaesarus shook his head and closed his eyes, exhausted.

“Ahaesarus,” came Judah’s voice. “We need to leave.”

Ahaesarus glanced up at his fellow Warden and saw him gazing with a locked jaw over the chasm’s now empty span. The Master Warden rolled over to look, his every joint smarting. Karak had stepped back, and the First Man now stood at the edge of the opposite ledge, his cloak fluttering in the cold breeze. It was difficult to tell from seven hundred feet away, but he suspected Velixar was smiling.

“Ahaesarus, the great teacher of man,” Velixar hollered, his voice echoing across the chasm. “Did you truly believe you and Ashhur’s pet freak could dare Karak’s might?” There was laughter in his tone as he pointed at Bardiya’s massive corpse. “You witnessed the fate of the last challenger.”

“I’ll fucking kill him,” Patrick uttered, still on his stomach and panting. There was no strength behind his words.

“Not now,” Ahaesarus said as Karak’s prophet raised his hands. “Run,” he told the rest of his allies. “All of you,
run
!”

Ahaesarus scampered to his feet, heaving Patrick up and along with him as he trailed after those dashing back into the forest. He
didn’t turn around—not when he heard the First Man chanting, not
when he felt a scorching heat on his back. He focused on putting one foot in front of the other, hoping beyond hope that
Patrick’s
stumpy legs could keep pace with his much longer ones.

They dove into the surrounding trees just as the entirety of the cliff face went up in a blaze of purple and black flame. Those flames licked above Ahaesarus’s head as he dropped to the ground and tumbled down a slight decline. Whipping tendrils of living shadow snapped all around him even as he rolled, their texture solid and oily when they lapped against his bare flesh.

The ground dropped out from beneath him, and Ahaesarus fell. He collided with the root-covered ground hard, an
oomph
leaving his lips as the wind was knocked from his lungs. Patrick landed right beside him, his flailing right arm striking him directly on the chest. The force of the blow was made all the more painful by the coldness of the day. Ahaesarus lay there, clutching his chest and moaning, until the ache diminished.

When he lifted his head and glanced about, he saw they had landed in a ravine. The odd purple flames still licked at the air fifteen feet above their heads. All members of the scouting party save Midoro were present, tending their various injuries. The only one that seemed not to be hurt was Preston. The old
Turncloak
sat with his back against a tree, stroking his thick gray beard as if deep in thought. Ahaesarus thought of the charge toward the bridge, how Preston had been the last in line and had gone down rather easily when Ahaesarus grabbed him. It was as if he’d been stalling on purpose.
That one knows better than to challenge a god. Seems he should dispense some of that knowledge to his friends.

DuTaureau shook his head while he gently dabbed at a deep gash in his elbow. “I’m sorry, Ahaesarus,” he said without looking up. He looked so miserable, with his tear-soaked cheeks and gnashing teeth, that Ahaesarus couldn’t stay upset.

“I understand,” Ahaesarus said.

Patrick’s eyes flitted upward, staring at the Master Warden from under his distended brow. “You do?”

“I do. However, do not be so foolish again. We cannot afford to lose you.”

At that, Patrick laughed grimly. “So say you.”

“Yes, so say I. You are the greatest of Ashhur’s defenders. Our god cannot afford to lose his ultimate warrior because of a need for vengeance.”

“You watched him die too, Ahaesarus,” said Patrick, looking away. “He was my friend.”

“He was. And his loss is painful to all, especially Ashhur.
However
, he played his part well. If not for the First Man, he might have killed a god. So go ahead, weep for Bardiya Gorgoros as you wish. Even Ashhur has shown his sorrow on this day. However, know that the giant now awaits us all in the Golden Forever. In some ways, he is lucky. His pain is over. Ours, I fear, is just beginning.”

“What a wonderful thought,” said Patrick, a hint of a wry smile playing on his lips.

Judah, who had been leaning against the earthen wall of the ravine, glanced up at the sputtering flames above them and then looked to Ahaesarus. “What do we do now?”

Ahaesarus leaned back on his hands and thought. At Patrick’s insistence, Ashhur had sent the party ahead of the bulk of his force, for their progress was indeed slowed, the undead and horses having a difficult time negotiating northeastern Paradise’s harsh forest
terrain
.

“Now, we return to Ashhur,” he said. “We will follow the river and look for a better spot to cross as we walk.

“What then?” asked Tosh. The other youngster, Tristan, rolled his eyes as if the answer were obvious.

“Then we go after them,” Patrick said, anger returning to his tenor. “Ashhur will face his brother and make him pay for what he’s done. There’s no stopping what has begun. There will be justice, or there will be death. Perhaps even the heavens will fall.”

Ahaesarus shivered, though he couldn’t have said it better
himself
.

C
HAPTER

42

T
hat coldhearted cunt,” Turock grumbled. The older spellcaster bounced with each of his horse’s strides, his mane of wavy red-blond hair bobbing on his shoulders. He clutched his pointed green hat in his lap, twisting it as if trying to squeeze the last drop of juice from a lemon. “She has
my children in there
! How dare she keep them away from me? Icy little bitch. It probably snows when she pisses. I’m glad my wife doesn’t take
after her.
”

Rachida Gemcroft rolled her eyes and shook her head, irritated. She had heard this same rant, over and over again, during the five days since they’d been denied entrance into Mordeina.

Turock continued his tirade while Quester Billings trotted up on the other side of her, grinning. “You want me to silence him?”

“Heard that,” said Turock, glaring over at the handsome young sellsword. “I’d like to see you try. You don’t want to know what happened to the last man who trifled with me.”

“Testy, aren’t we?” declared Pox Jon, who rode to Quester’s right.

Turock glowered.

“Enough, all of you,” Rachida said. “It’s like riding with
children
.”

She snapped the reins, forcing her steed up to a canter. Her frustration boiled over, and she let out a long groan. Even imagining shoving a shank into Peytr’s groin did nothing to lift
her mood
.

They had taken a circuitous route to Mordeina from Drake, sticking close to the mountain chain bordering the Gihon and heading inland only when the forest of Dezerea came within view. In all, the trip had taken thirteen days, and though the spellcasters’ gemstones had kept them well fed and the weather grew warmer, they still needed to sleep out in the elements, and the anticipation of what lay ahead of them had everyone on edge.

Yet that angst had not been justified, for when they arrived at the settlement itself, they found Mordeina surrounded by a gigantic double wall that put the one around Port Lancaster to shame. Even Turock was awestruck, staring up at the sixty-foot-tall wall of gray stone, and he was speechless for the first time since the journey started. Instead of Karak’s Army, they found an empty valley whose grass and trees, now bare due to the early thaw, were brown and dead. Instead of warfare, they found silence. Instead of being greeted as saviors, the people behind the wall turned them away.

No matter what Rachida told the black-haired man and the rather short Warden who had confronted her on the other side of the portcullis, they would not let her group inside. Even when Turock came forward, confident he would be able to sway the man he called
Howard
to open the gates, they were greeted with indifference.

“The men you travel with are emblazoned with Karak’s sigil,” Howard had told them, and the short Warden nodded in agreement. “After what our people have gone through, the sight would not be a welcomed one.”

No promise to strip the men of their armor would change their minds. The insults and threats Turock had lashed them with
certainly
hadn’t helped either. And so they had ridden away from the settle
ment, frustration steadily progressing through their ranks. Only
Talon Blackwolfe and the other two hundred of Karak’s
soldiers
that had joined their cause up north kept a level head throughout the ordeal.

Arguments abounded. Turock and the spellcasters wanted to head back north to their people; the sellswords wished to return to Neldar and their masters’ employ; and the two hundred turncoats called for pursuing Karak to the east. It was Talon’s men who won that argument, as they were the ones who sided with Rachida. She had stood proudly before her eight hundred men and told them—
told
, not asked—that they would be staying the course. She reminded the sellswords that they would be burned as blasphemers should they return to Neldar as known betrayers; Turock and his spellcasters she persuaded by promising them their pick of the treasures deep within the Isles of Gold. Peytr might not be happy with the deal, but then again, after she dealt with her plotting husband, he would never object to anything again.

And so they continued on the course Karak and Ashhur had taken, riding through a razed landscape, only to be thwarted at the Wooden Bridge. The bridge was in tatters, its ropes snapped, half its planks dangling. There was no way to get eight hundred men and three hundred horses across. Going back north was out of the
question
, for the way was too rough and slow, which left them with only two options: Circle around Lake Cor, which would bring them into the Dezren Forest, a place Talon Blackwolfe had informed them was under the control of Karak’s Army; or march south toward
Stonewood
, where the elves were supposedly more docile. Again they fell into arguments, and once more Rachida was forced to put her foot down.

They would head south toward Stonewood Forest and attempt to make passage where the Corinth River was shallow enough for the horses to cross without drowning.

Now here they were, on the cusp of Stonewood itself, and the only saving grace was the warm southern air. Turock continued his outburst, throwing out curses that made even Quester blush. Rachida rode ahead to get away from him, bringing her horse to a gallop as she neared the huge trees bordering the forest. She sensed eyes on her and felt ill at ease. The only path curved inland, away from the river, and though Turock assured her that the path bent back to the east once they entered the trees, she felt naked without those flowing waters to dive into should trouble arise. The only thing to her right here was a bank of tall trees that sat at the edge of a field, two hundred yards away.

When she was far enough ahead, she turned her horse around just in time to see Turock angrily flick his wrist while yelling, “Cunt!” A tiny fireball zipped from his fingertips and singed the grass bordering the beaten path they treaded. Young Decker, Pox Jon’s second in command, quickly snuffed out the fire. Rachida looked on as Talon and eight of his men began to sneak up on the spellcaster from behind. Behind them, Turock’s students noticed this happening and themselves began to approach, scowling. It would be all-out war between them if she didn’t do something.

She drew one of her Twins and urged her horse to gallop
to
ward them
.

“All of you, enough!” she shouted, holding the sword out wide. Turock looked her way, glaring. Talon obediently halted his movements. The other spellcasters, all twenty-two of them, pulled up before they collided with the soldiers’ rears. At the sight of such a display, many in the sellsword divisions laughed.

Rachida rode sidelong up to the angry and flamboyant man. Turock puffed out his chest as if to challenge her, which Rachida answered by swiping at him with her sword at such speed that he didn’t have time to react. The blade flashed against his cheek, creating a thin red line. The man flinched, his hand coming up to touch the wound as a dollop of blood dripped onto his bright green robe.

“You bitch,” he said, eyes wide.

Rachida leaned forward in her saddle, resting the flat edge of her blade against Turock’s neck. “Call me bitch one more time, and I slice your throat. Trust me, as of now nothing would bring me greater pleasure.”

Turock’s expression suddenly brightened, and he forced a smile. “Why, dear Rachida, I wouldn’t
dream
of it.”

“You best not.”

“And don’t think to cast some sort of spell, either,” said Quester with a wink. “My man Pox Jon over there is deadly with throwing knives. He can bury four in you before you get the words out of your throat. Isn’t that right, Jon?”

Pox Jon nodded, reached into his belt, and pulled out three stumpy blades. “Got a few right here, matter of fact.”

Turock visibly swallowed, looking all around him. His fingers started twitching, and sweat pooled on his collar, even though the temperature during this early afternoon was mild. To Rachida he seemed ridiculous; this was a man of Paradise, surrounded by soldiers from the kingdom that was now, technically, the enemy, and yet it was as if he had just then realized that fact. For an obviously brilliant man, he was rather stupid.

“I . . . I’m sorry,” he told Rachida in a low voice.

“Say it louder,” demanded Talon.

Rachida held up a hand. “No, that is fine.” She sheathed her Twin and sidled closer to Turock, leaning in. Even though her sword was secure, he still seemed wary. “Listen: I don’t wish to hurt you. But we are about to enter Dezren territory. I don’t know how relations are between elf and human in Paradise, but it is chilly at best in the east. So please, let us not attract undue attention to ourselves while we tread through their land. Once we cross the Corinth, you can go on all you like. Do we have a deal?”

She stuck out her hand. Turock hesitantly took it, his head cocked oddly to the side.

“Deal,” he said, though it sounded like his thoughts were
far away
.

“Good. Now let’s go.”

The spellcaster cleared his throat. “Uh, one more thing, Rachida my dear.”

“What?”

“What’s happening over there?”

His eyes glassed over as he pointed across the field at the thickly packed forest that bordered the Corinth River. Rachida followed his gaze, seeing movement within the trees, the branches swaying, and the underbrush rustling. It was probably just a wolf or an elk or—

It wasn’t a wolf, or an elk, or any other animal for that matter. Instead, a tall elf, with deeply bronzed flesh and long, satiny hair, burst from the foliage. He was a Quellan and therefore very far from home. The elf ran with abandon, his arms and legs pumping vigorously as he crossed the field of swaying reeds. Rachida’s hand fell to her sword, preparing to draw it should the elf attack, but she noticed that he brandished no weapons. He was running strangely, as well, leaping into the air every few moments and waving his arms at them.

Sensing her men tense behind her, Rachida raised her hand and signaled with a fist.

“Hold!” she ordered.

The elf was on them in an instant, and as he passed them by, dashing through the ranks of soldiers and sellswords, Rachida heard screaming, endless streams of syllables that were alien to her ears. The sound of his shouts elapsed as fast as he did, like the screech of a falcon as it soared through the sky and disappeared over the horizon. The men parted for him, allowing the elf to sprint across the opposite field and disappear into the massive trees of the
Stonewood
Forest. When he was gone, Rachida gawked at her
sellswords
,
confused
.

“What in the name of the gods was
that
?” asked a bewildered Pox Jon.

“An elf,” Quester told him.

“No shit.”

“He was saying something,” said Rachida. “What was it? I couldn’t make it out.”

“Sounded like nonsense to me,” Talon said, trotting over toward the spot where the elf disappeared. “Just gibberish.”

“It wasn’t gibberish,” said Turock. Rachida turned toward the absolutely terrified-looking spellcaster. It made her uneasy to see him so. What’s more, she now heard a steady thrum, one that vibrated her saddle.

“What did he say?” she asked.

“Noro, nuru e taryet,”
the spellcaster said. “It’s Elvish for ‘Run, death has arrived.’ ”

As if on cue, a horribly loud trumpeting rang out, causing most of the eight hundred men gathered on the road to cover their ears. Countless birds squawked and flew from the treetops in bunches. Quester clammed up and actually appeared frightened for the first time since Rachida had met him. Rachida’s head whipped back around, and she looked on as the tall trees to the east began to sway, their budding branches snapping like so much kindling. Her horse whinnied nervously and then bucked.

Then, in a flash of dust and an explosion of dirt, the tree line exploded outward. What rumbled out of the forest was huge.
Menacing
. Evil. Impossible.

And it was coming their way.

“Flee!”
shouted Rachida. Her mind blank with fear, she spun her panicked steed around and hastened into the forest in the other direction, followed by the soldiers and sellswords, while death closed in from behind.