Blood Of Gods (Book 3) (60 page)

E
PILOGUE

The cart was excruciatingly heavy. Then again, that was bound to be the case when the corpse of a twelve-foot-tall giant was sprawled atop it.

“Shouldn’t you have lost some weight by now, old friend?” asked Patrick, his eyes stinging from the sweat running down his bulging forehead. He peered behind him at the corpse of Bardiya Gorgoros. The giant’s skin had gone from brown to pale gray, and his gums and lips had receded, but other than that, the body was shockingly well preserved. His eyes were closed, his chin held back, as if in prayer. If anything, he appeared peaceful. Patrick turned back around, focusing instead on lugging the cart down the gentle decline. He felt tears begin to well up. “We hardly saw each other over the last twenty years, but I miss the big lug now more than ever.”

Big Flick, who hauled the cart’s other long handle, glanced over at him. The large young Turncloak sniffled and nodded, but said nothing.

It was early morning as the somber group of eight trudged their way from the cliff on which Bardiya had died to the rocky flatlands to the north. All were silent save the occasional sigh.
Preston
,
Joffrey
, Ryann, and the Kerrian Allay Loros walked in the lead with Warden Ahaesarus while Patrick and Big Flick hauled the cart behind them. To the rear was a second wagon, the leads of the lame horse that pulled it held by Little Flick. That second cart held a trio of corpses, those of Preston’s sons, Edward and Ragnar, and Tristan Valeson, along with their paltry supplies. They had come this way to honor the dead Turncloaks, as Preston wished to bury his sons as their tradition demanded, beneath the rocky soil they once called home. Retrieving Bardiya had been Patrick’s decision. The thought of allowing the man whom Ashhur had described as his most pure child to rot while animals pecked away at his corpse had made him feel ill.

Patrick grunted when his foot struck a protruding chunk of granite, sending pain flaring through his toes. He heard the horse snort behind him and cursed. He’d felt obligated to help haul the cart when they’d finally reached Bardiya’s body, a final show of respect to a man he’d once called friend, but it was frustrating that the cart needed human propulsion at all. After the attack on Veldaren, horses had become a rare and valuable commodity. That they had been given this lame mare, which had been wounded during the battle, was a wonder in itself.

The three weeks since the gods disappeared from the face of Dezrel had passed by in a blur. Patrick himself had aided in clearing out the mass of corpses that filled the square where Veldaren’s castle once stood. In total, nearly four thousand of Karak’s and
Ashhur’s
children had perished, along with five hundred horses. Over a hundred Wardens had also left the world for good. The number of deceased was so great that they were burned en masse, in great pyres whose flames illuminated the sky for five days straight.

After that, the process of rebuilding began. Three years of strife had ended, and yet it seemed humanity’s struggles were just beginning. With no more gods to guide the way, the people were lost. They wandered the city streets with empty stares. Few talked about anything but the gods. Prayer circles began to form daily as the survivors from both sides sought comfort in those who had been raised like them. Minor scuffles broke out. Survivors leapt from the tops of the city’s tallest buildings, and some wandered into the wilderness. The young human race was astray, a people without purpose, without guidance. Looking back was easier than looking forward.

Many of those from Neldar packed what they could and headed off to the various villages and townships they called home. Moira was among those who left. Ashhur’s brave warriors had no such option. Food was scare, supplies scarcer. That, coupled with the long journey that was sure to face them and the uncertainty of what they would find if they ever did make it back to the former paradise across the river, forced their hand. Karak had razed much of
the land
, after all, and the eastern deity’s beast-men now roamed free. So most settled into the strange, faraway city, pining for the life they’d once had while struggling to adapt to their new one.

Yet in the midst of hardship and blight, a slight thread of hope emerged. The king of Neldar began holding court nightly, the willowy man named Eldrich giving impassioned speeches from the steps of an ugly, imposing tower in the north of the city. Although he didn’t promise that life would be easy, or that each man, woman, and child would be free from suffering, he bonded the citizens together with pledges of unity. “We will endure this together!” he would proclaim. Moods began to brighten. People went back to work, smithies, carpenters, pottery makers, cobblers, and apothecaries reopening their doors. Others began filing into the city as well, exhausted soldiers of Karak who had abandoned their god on the battlefield and braved the harrowing journey back home. The fields just outside Veldaren were tilled and prepared for the spring planting, the farmers who worked them not wanting for helping hands now that there were so many unskilled laborers living within the city limits. A semblance of order was brought back to what had once been chaos. The City Watch was re-formed, an institution that Patrick was asked to enlist in, an offer he declined. Instead, he toiled the fields along with his people, his hope being that once the crops were cultivated, he could strike off west and reunite with his family. In the aftermath of war, he missed them more than anything, even his mother and father. Their sins against him seemed to grow less and less serious with distance, time, and hardship.

Love and forgive one another, and you will find fulfillment.
He peered at the giant’s corpse. Perhaps Bardiya had been right about everything all along.

“Here,” said Allay Loros, his black skin glistening with sweat as he stood with hands on hips. The progression stopped.

“Here?” asked Preston. “Why?”

“Because it reminds me of home,” the Kerrian said wistfully.

They had walked nearly three miles, and the cliff was far behind them. The place where they now stood was a vast meadow of swaying, knee-high grasses. To the left was a wide chasm of rushing water where the two rivers, the Gihon flowing from the northwest and the Rigon from the northeast, poured into each other. On the opposite side of the fork were the thick forests of Paradise; to the north of it, the rocky expanse of the Tinderlands. Three separate worlds, merged.
Yes,
thought Patrick. It was the perfect place for Bardiya’s remains to be buried.

Shovels were retrieved from the cart, and the eight weary travelers began digging. It took nearly two hours for them to manage a hole large enough to fit Bardiya’s gargantuan frame. When it was finished, the giant was gently put to rest, the hollow filled back in. Afterward, they stood around the huge mound of dirt, heads down.

“You’ll be missed, Bardy,” Patrick said. “I hope Ashhur is
keeping
you safe on the other side.”

“I wish to speak,” said Ahaesarus. The Warden had remained mostly silent during the length of their journey, and hearing his stern voice made Patrick twitch. “There is something I must ask you all.”

“Go on,” Patrick said.

Ahaesarus stepped to the edge of the burial mound. “Where will you be going from here? What plans do you have?”

Everyone stared at him as if deep in thought. None responded.

“We don’t know,” Patrick said finally, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “I suppose we just see what happens.”

“Do you love Ashhur?” the Warden asked.

“Of course,” Allay said, as if offended. “He created us.”

“Yet he is gone now. How will you honor him?”

To that, none had a reply.

Ahaesarus began pacing inside the circle, looking each man in the eye as he passed him. “Ashhur spoke of love and forgiveness, of living in harmony with your fellow man, of caring for family and appreciating all life. With him now gone, who will spread his
message
?

“When Karak first left his children more than forty years ago, a priesthood was formed. Although the leader of that priesthood, a man named Tustlewhite, now languishes, insane, in the custody of Neldar’s king, I have learned there were many more that bore the mantle. Villages throughout this kingdom have a temple; and that temple, a priest. The priest preaches, and the acolytes carry forth the message. Though they have not been heard from since Karak was banished, they will not remain that way for long. Civilization needs beliefs. They will rise up again; they will preach Karak’s word. If this world is indeed free for any and all to live wherever and however they may choose, that doctrine must be balanced. Ashhur’s teachings must not fade away into nothingness, lest Celestia’s final condemnation come to pass.”

Patrick drew his lips into a tight line. “What are you saying? That we should become priests?”

“Not in the slightest,” said the Warden. “My fellow Wardens and I have talked of forming the priesthood. However, I have spoken at length with King Vaelor and his advisors over the last few weeks about many of the aspects of life I experienced on Algrahar. In particular, he was curious about the concept of a knighthood. You all may remember the stories my people told you, of an order that adhered to a strict code, pledged their lives to various kings, their duties to defend the realm and uphold the law of the land.”

“The Wardens left Neldar when I was young,” said Preston, “but I remember those stories well.”

“Yes. They are tales of gallantry and honor, of brave men defending against invading armies and battling hell beasts. However, these men did not serve the will of Rana, but the will of man.”

“The will of man?” said Big Flick, confused. “You had humans where you were?”

“No, son. On Algrahar,
we
were humankind.”

“Oh.”

Ahaesarus chuckled. “That is beside the point. Although these knights were indeed great warriors, they were mere peasants when compared to those who trained them. It was those who dedicated their lives to Rana’s teachings—operating outside the laws of men, preaching the word of our god, upholding the holy and protecting the innocent—that were the true glory of our world. We called them paladins, their order the most trying and elite to ever be created. In fact, I was told by Ashhur long ago that he and Karak had paladins of their own at some point in the past, on some other world.”

“Paladins? Never heard of them,” said Patrick.

“I would think not,” Ahaesarus said, placing his hand on
Patrick’s
shoulder. “The brother deities decided the order was unnecessary. They had learned that granting men that mantle was counterproductive when the gods themselves walked the land. For if that god erred, it would be his very faithful that confronted him.” The Warden pointed at the mound beneath which Bardiya was buried. “With that in mind, it is here, on the very spot where Ashhur’s most faithful servant, the one who was willing to righteously defy him, has been laid to rest, that a new Citadel should be built. It is here that the paladins of Ashhur must come into being.

“You are the best there is. Preston, you and your boys have proven your dedication to Ashhur’s teachings. Allay, you led your people to your god’s side when most others would have sought safety. And Patrick, Ashhur told me time and again that of all his creations, you were the most beautiful. You have shown that through every waking moment of your life.”

Patrick thought of his past, of all the women he had bedded, of all the men he’d killed. He thought of his doubts, of the times he’d cursed Ashhur’s name when the going was rough, of the numerous occasions he had wished for his life to come to end.

“I think you overestimate me,” he said.

“I think not,” retorted Ahaesarus. “I think that if one man embodies all it means to be a child of Ashhur, it is you. Ashhur himself believed it, and so do I.”

All grew silent. Patrick closed his eyes.
Ashhur, is this right?
He didn’t expect an answer, yet he received one nonetheless. Warmth spread through his belly, extending down his arms and legs, causing his fingers and toes to tremble. He saw Ashhur’s likeness in his mind, hovering over the world and smiling down on him. He saw Nessa and Corton and Bardiya and Tristan, the light surrounding them nearly blinding, their hands reaching out for him, their lips mouthing the same refrain.

You are loved.

Patrick opened his eyes and took a step onto Bardiya’s burial mound. He dropped to his knees. The warmth continued to fill his deformed body. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

“I dedicate my life to you, your Grace,” he said, staring at the heavens. “I will be your servant. I will protect your children. I will live my life to the fullest and show others the way. I will call others to join me, and together we will help lead the meek through Afram, until they reach the Golden Forever beyond the stars.”

Allay smiled. Preston nodded firmly. Joffrey, Ryann, and Big and Little Flick slowly got on their knees, themselves looking close to tears. Hands fell on Patrick’s shoulders. Ahaesarus looked down on him with pride.

“It is done,” the Warden said. “You are the first.”

Patrick sniffled. “I guess I am.”

“And for your sacrifice, you have received your reward.”

“My reward?”

Patrick yelped as he felt a sharp, momentary pain in his scalp. He rubbed the sore spot as Ahaesarus leaned over and placed something in Patrick’s palm.

“Your reward.”

Pinching the gift Ahaesarus had given him, Patrick raised it up to his eyes. It was a single hair, long and curly and so silver that it seemed nearly transparent in the bright sunlight. A wide smile came over Patrick’s lips.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

A
FTERWORD

Robert

Well, this one was rough.

By all rights, it shouldn’t have been. After all, when Dave and I first set out to begin this project, we already knew where this part of the story would end. It had been set up long before, documented over the many books Dave had written that took place in Dezrel. That made the outline quite simple. Battle for Mordeina? Check. Creation of the beast-men? Check. The Darakken finally being thwarted? Check. The final confrontation between Ashhur and Karak? Checkity-check-check-check.

But here’s the thing: There was so much more to this far-
reaching
tale than just those few elements. We had multiple characters to consider, numerous locations, and the eventual drawing in of every major player. There was torment in Veldaren, fear of impending doom in Mordeina, torture in the desert of Ker, scheming in Port Lancaster, and numerous other plotlines to consider. It was a lot to consider, a lot to take in . . . and a hell of a lot to wrap up in two hundred thousand words.

That, more than anything, was the crux of why this book was so difficult. When I wrote the outline, I originally came up with
eighty-six chapters, plus a prologue and an epilogue.
Eighty-six!
As it is, that’s 40 percent larger than this tome is already. Some
things needed to be cut, and I struggled with those decisions. I was
afraid we’d end up with a half-million-word book that’d be virtually
unsellable
.

In the end, it was Dave who saved me from myself. He hacked and slashed at the outline, whittling the chapter count down to a reasonable fifty-three. Then, when the manuscript was finished, he slashed even more. Was it tough? Of course. There was stuff that didn’t make it into the book that I absolutely adored. But you know, that’s the thing with writing—sometimes your favorite bits are also the most unnecessary. For as much as Dave hates world building, his lack of sentimentality is a blessing, especially for someone like me who sometimes has trouble restraining himself.

Now, I realize that there are certain plotlines that’re left rather open ended. There just wasn’t room for them in this book, which happens to be the price of word-count restrictions and tight storytelling. Don’t worry, we haven’t forgotten about them. There are some dire things in store for Catherine, Moira, and especially Ceredon, Aully, and Kindren. We also haven’t overlooked Geris Felhorn, Vulfram’s children Alexander and Caleigh, or little Willa, Avila Crestwell’s tiny companion. All of these characters’ stories are far from over, for
Blood of Gods,
while indeed being the climax of the war between Ashhur and Karak, is actually only the midpoint of the series we had planned. There are still three more books to go—
Kings of Ruin, Prince of Beasts
, and
Queen of Lies
. When we’ll actually get around to writing them, I’m not entirely sure. But they
will
be written, and that’s a promise.

I of course need to thank my wife, Jess, for her constant support; Dave, for being my forever ally; and my agent, Michael Carr, for—well, just for being awesome. Thanks again to David Pomerico for hefting his way through this
looooong
three-book journey, Mark Winters for his spectacular covers, and the entire team at 47North for their unending support. I need to give a tremendous
YOU ROCK!
to Jaime Levine for stepping in and putting forth the
tremendous
effort to story-edit this book. This is the first Dave and I have worked with her, and the transition from our old editor was as seamless as could be. And how could I forget Jill Pellarin, who tirelessly copyedited all three of these rather hefty manuscripts and did so with undying enthusiasm?

Finally, I need to thank you, the fans, who’ve gone on this journey with us thus far. As much fun as it is to work on these books with Dave, it wouldn’t be worth anything without your support and appreciation of the material. Just wait until you see what else we have in store!

And without further ado, I’ll pass the baton to Dave . . .

David

To be fair, I don’t hate world building. I’d just rather focus on characters. Just want to throw that out there before I start!

Finishing this book was bittersweet. There are moments I have in my head, long before I ever start writing a book, that I look forward to reaching, that I feel will define the novel. The ending of this book, particularly the final battle between Karak and Ashhur, I’ve been pondering for years now. Years. So to reach that point and to try to live up to a fraction of what I had in my head, to try to convey the sense of futility and grandeur and world-shattering decisions, well . . . that’s kind of daunting. I did my best, and I hope you all found it satisfying. There’s a pretty big risk of it being a deus ex machina ending, which sort of happens when you plot the history of a war solely to be history instead of an actual separate series of novels like when I first built Dezrel. But I think we earned this one.

So now the scene is done, the war is told, and looking back at all the various moments I never once imagined when I first ran this war through my head, I can only hope we hit the scale just right. This was a young world, with a young race of humankind and with gods walking among them. This should have felt different, should have carried gravitas some of my other novels never dared carry. And as much as I am proud of this series, I’m also exhausted by nearly all six hundred thousand words of it. This was a scope I’d never once tried before, and without Rob’s help, it certainly never would have happened. For that, I’ll forever be in his debt.

Consider this next part here for all you longtime fans: I hope you realize how much a love letter this series (and this book in particular) is for you. The creation of the paladins? The first instance of an Elholad? Kayne and Lilah becoming like they were in Old Ways? Creation of the orcs? Harruq’s twin cursed blades from the
Half-Orcs?
The rise to power of the Trifect from Shadowdance? Yup, they’re here. The war scenes from
The Weight of Blood
, the various tales Velixar told—they’re all here. Speaking of Velixar, you even get to see that bastard get chopped in half and become the loveable lich he is in the rest of my books. If we could sneak in a cameo, if we could build a history for it, we did. The Breaking World is a veritable Where’s Waldo of my other series, and I hope at least one or two of them put a smile on your face when you discovered them.

Rob said all the thank-you’s, but I’ll say them again: David, for trusting us in the first place; Michael, for listening to my pitch about this silly co-author story I’d been working on; Mark, for giving us covers far better than we deserve; and Jaime, for having to read through this behemoth multiple times with a critical eye.

But last, and as always most important, thank
you
, dear reader. We do this for you, to entertain you, to pull you out of your world and into ours. I pray your stay, despite a few dark spots, was an enjoyable one.

David Dalglish & Robert Duperre

February 25th, 2014