Blood Of Gods

CHAPTER 10

While the thunder crashed from within Mordeina’s walls, and the Lord Commander shouted for the advancing soldiers to retreat, Velixar knelt motionless in the dead brown grass, surrounded by the corpses of soldiers who’d lost their lives to arrow and raging flame no more than a hundred feet from the breach in the wall. That breach was now being covered over with rough stone, sealing it. He stared in disbelief. Where he had seen imminent success had come failure. Where he had expected glory, he’d received shame.

“My magic is strong,” he’d told Malcolm. “My bond with the demon’s power grows stronger every day.” During the long weeks leading to this night he had dived deeper into the recesses of his combined soul, gaining access to new abilities, new reservoirs of magic he had not known existed. The demon that had once borne his name seemed to have been formed from the very root of magic itself; every layer he peeled back revealed greater and greater secrets.

And yet it hadn’t been enough. The wall should have crumbled under his will, but still it stood, no matter how he chanted, no matter how much strength he funneled from his god-yes, Karak’s power still burned inside him. He had succeeded in widening the gap, and then Velixar’s shadows had simply burned and retreated, a magical ward rising around the township, thwarting his every spell. He reached inside his cloak and withdrew his pendant, that of the lion standing atop a mountain. The bas-relief vibrated, glowing a deep red around the edges. Letting the pendant dangle in front of his chest, he fumed. Who had raised the barrier against him? Celestia again? Or were the novice spellcasters inside somehow growing more powerful than he?

He shook his head. It had to be Celestia. The other option wasn’t possible.

Finally, when the sun rose behind him, Velixar slapped the frail grass and stood up. He walked slowly across the valley, heading for the sprawling camp at the top of the rise. He could feel the eyes of Mordeina’s defenders on his back, watching him, mocking him. He curled his hands into fists, fighting the urge to turn around and hurl a massive bolt of living shadow their way. It would do no good. The spell will fail before it ever reaches them.

Lord Commander Gregorian was awake and sitting tall atop his horse, his arm no longer in a sling. With tired eyes he watched the physicians tend to the wounded. At Velixar’s arrival, the man met his gaze and nodded. There was no accusation in his stare, and no mockery either. There best not be. It was Malcolm whom Velixar had first gone to with the plan, and the Lord Commander had eagerly approved the strategy. Malcolm had also spoken of the men’s angst and exhaustion, their hunger and doubt that they would succeed in their task. “Most of these soldiers were laborers, craftsmen, and farmers,” he’d said. “Though their faith in their Lord is strong, they themselves are fallible. Any course of action that brings an end to this conflict quickly would be best.”

So they marched, using their twelve finished catapults to barrage the outer wall while allowing Velixar’s magic to finish the job. It was a risky proposition given that none knew the proportions of the walls themselves, how large the space was between the two, how wide the ramparts, or the location of the inner gate. And none knew how many defenders the settlement truly had. Yet Velixar had laughed those questions off. Who needs information when you have my strength at your side?

How wrong he had been.

Velixar walked through the first cluster of tents without uttering a word. Those who had marched to the walls, nearly half the army, lingered outside their canvas enclosures, muttering. Those who had remained behind were lighting cookfires to warm their thinned-out wine and perhaps cook a few meager scraps of horsemeat before starting their day. There were still machines of war to build, after all, and every man who knew how to swing a hammer and work a saw was needed.

Had I succeeded, they would not have been needed.

Spiraling into dejection, Velixar came upon the Quellan camp. Chief Aerland Shen was outside, sitting before his cookfire, his thick legs crossed one over the other. His muscular back flexed, and his square chin jutted toward the rising sun. His eyes were closed. The other elven rangers, nearly a hundred of them, all held the same posture in front of their odd, triangular tents. When Velixar stepped on a twig, many of their eyes snapped open and looked in his direction. Some offered polite greetings in their native tongue; others acted as if he wasn’t there, and Chief Shen scowled. Three days ago Velixar had promised the Ekreissar chief battle for his rangers, a promise that hadn’t come to pass.

Velixar flipped his hood over his head, hugged his cloak tight, and gazed toward Karak’s pavilion, majestic and austere, the tallest structure that could be seen within the camp. He wanted nothing more than to march up the rise, fall down on his knees, and confess his failure to his god, but he dared not. Nine days ago Karak had announced he was not to be disturbed while he went about some enigmatic godly rite. He had not exited since. Velixar sighed, turned around, and headed back for Malcolm. Though he required sleep, he refused himself the luxury. These were his soldiers that were wailing in the distance as their bones were set and their mangled limbs sliced away. He would go to them, comfort them as best he could, and then oversee the construction of the towers until nightfall. Karak would beckon him when Karak so desired.

That beckoning came two nights later when, just before dawn, Karak entered Velixar’s pavilion. Velixar had been sitting at his desk, jamming a quill into the soft wooden tabletop and staring at his clothing chest, atop which the head of Donnell Frost sat, the faithful man who had been justly executed after attempting to flee. Velixar sat awestruck for a moment, too confounded to move, until he fell from his chair and dropped to his knees before the god. Karak had never entered his pavilion before.

“My Lord,” he said, nearly kissing the ground. “I am unworthy of your presence.”

The deity acted like he didn’t hear him. Karak leaned over the chest atop which Donnell’s head rested, his glowing eyes seemingly studying every crease and bump on the slowly rotting flesh.

“Why is this here?” Karak asked.

Velixar sat up and cleared his throat. “I ordered my stewards to dip it in wax and place it in my tent.”

“For what reason?”

“For trials. Though Donnell Frost made a mistake, he was a faithful man, perhaps as faithful as the Lord Commander. If it is true what the elves say, that threads of a being’s essence remains tied to its body even after death, I surmised the head would be where his spirit lingered strongest.”

“You have been discovering further. . talents,” said Karak.

“I have, my Lord. I have been studying how to commune with the dead, how to gain their secrets, and since it is my faith in you that gives me strength, and Donnell possessed that same faith, it is only logical to use him as my first trial.”

“Have you been successful?”

Velixar shrugged. “I have not attempted yet, my Lord. I have been. . awaiting the right moment.”

Karak poked at one of Donnell’s jellied eyes with his giant finger. The eye burst, leaking pus over the cracked flesh of his cheeks. A worried lump formed in Velixar’s throat.

“My Lord, might I ask what you were doing in your pavilion all this time?”

“I was scouring my kingdom,” the god said, still not looking in his direction. “Gazing through the ether at the souls of the true and the deceitful alike. That is why I am here.”

Velixar slowly rose to his feet. He didn’t like Karak’s tone. The deity seemed weary, almost dejected. Velixar had never heard him sound such a way.

“Something troubles you,” he said.

Karak nodded. “I have seen much. I have seen our fourth regiment on a rudderless ship in the Tinderlands, with their captain gone, assaulting Turock Escheton’s people and finding themselves in a stalemate. Their faith in me is faltering. I have seen ships set sail from Omnmount, the last of our fallback division departing without my knowledge or permission and sailing to the Isles of Gold along with conscripted sellswords from Neldar.” Karak looked at him finally, his golden eyes severe. “The faithful were destroyed, and now the sellswords have reached Paradise, with the last surviving daughter of Soleh Mori leading them.”

“Rachida? She is here in Paradise?”

“I have seen betrayal after betrayal,” the god continued, ignoring him. “The Judges have taken over Veldaren, though the puppet king opposes them. Merchant families are banding together with secret pacts, and they have infiltrated my army. There has been so much failure.”

Velixar dropped his head. “Speaking of failure, my Lord, I have something to confess.”

“Yes, your thwarted attack on the walls. I saw that as well.”

“Then you know that someone raised a magical barrier to counteract my power. Either Celestia has once more stepped into the fold, or one of the-”

“It is neither. My brother is the one who raised the barrier.”

“Come again, my Lord?”

“Ashhur is awake. He rose from his slumber while your boulders cracked the wall. You were thwarted by him, no one else.”

Once more Velixar dropped to his knees. “My failure knows no bounds, my Lord. I do not deserve forgiveness, I do not deserve-”

“Enough, High Prophet,” said the god. “You are still only mortal. That your power paled before a god’s is merely inevitable and needs no apologies. As for Ashhur, it is fortunate he has awoken, for now the two sides are balanced, and there is no need for Celestia to further intervene. No, Velixar, your failure lies elsewhere.”

Karak’s hand was on him a moment later, forcibly making him sit up. Those glowing eyes bore down on him, seeming to shrink his very soul. Velixar’s heart pounded in his chest as he awaited the accusation.

“Have you heard word from Darakken and the elves?” the god asked.

Velixar was taken off guard by the out-of-place question.

“I have not, my Lord. I assume they encountered delays, or the Dezren were not as hospitable as we assumed they would be.”

“Neither is the case,” said Karak. “They are no longer in Dezerea.”

“Then where are they?”

The deity leveled his gaze, his eyes shining brighter than ever. “Ker. The demon has turned his remaining soldiers, as well as the might of the Ekreissar, against my brother’s darker-skinned children.”

Velixar’s jaw dropped open. “I. . is it. . is this not fortuitous, my Lord? Darakken is a simple beast, seeking only to please its creator. He most likely hopes to make you proud by dismantling those you have saved for last.”

“Once more you prove how little you know,” Karak said with disappointment. “And you fool yourself if you think a creature such as Darakken would seek to please me. The demon was given life for a single purpose: to destroy all of Celestia’s creations. That is all it seeks, a slave to its primitive urge. Worse, it craves to become whole once more.”

“That is not possible,” Velixar said, shaking his head. His whole body had gone numb. “The only way he could make himself whole. . ”

Karak nodded gravely.

“My journal,” said Velixar with dread.

“Yes, High Prophet. I found it. In the possession of Darakken.”

Velixar’s whole body went limp, and he fell back to his knees, arms dangling by his sides. “How?”

“It was given to the beast by a human soldier, one that once marched with us through Lerder. Boris Marchant. Do you recall him?”

Velixar nodded, anger churning in his gut. Boris had been a soldier he once thought might have replaced Roland Norsman as his apprentice. That the man had betrayed him. . he was beyond words. He saw red.

“How the beast obtained the book is not relevant,” Karak said. “What is relevant is that you said you could control it. The demon was to tip the scales in our favor in case Ashhur proved stronger than we assumed. Yet now, because of your carelessness, your hubris, you have let this thing run amok. If he succeeds in remaking himself, he will bring chaos to this land, and it will be up to me to banish him to the pit yet again, once my victory is secure.”

“I am sorry, my Lord,” Velixar whispered. “I. . am. . sorry.”

Karak ran a hand through his short, dark hair and closed his eyes. “It is not all your doing. I am at fault as well. In my haste to bring about this conflict, I failed to do that which I had done for an epoch. I failed to watch. Had I kept an eye on my children, I would have known of their treachery and put a stop to it. Had I taken a moment to quell Darakken myself, instead of making plans for war, I would have him under better control. Humans are fallible; I am not supposed to be.”

Velixar did his best to compose himself.

“What do we do now?”

Karak formed a fist and ground it in his opposite palm. “Now we accelerate. My brother’s children must fall, and they must fall soon, while he is still weakened. If we cannot assault them with magic, we will assault them with everything else at our disposal. I will walk among my children and aid them in their construction. Once they are finished, we will attack, and this time we will know exactly when and exactly where.”

“And how is that, my Lord? Have you seen something of Ashhur’s children through the ether?”

“I can no more espy my brother’s children than he can see mine, High Prophet. It must be you. You are the greatest of humanity-surely you can discover a way. Is your magic not powerful?”

“It is powerful, my Lord, but the walls are protected now, as you have said.”

Karak glanced once more in the direction of Donnell Winter’s head. “Perhaps all this power has weakened you in other ways. You are strong, you are mighty, but in many ways Jacob Eveningstar was cleverer. What would he have done?”

Velixar had no chance to answer before Karak bid his farewell and left the pavilion. He stood in the center of the space, perplexed and more than a little insulted. What would Jacob Eveningstar do? It was a question Velixar hadn’t pondered since he took the name of the demon as his own. Jacob was a mere human, albeit an ageless one. What could he accomplish that Velixar could not?

Velixar lifted his gaze to the hanging mirror of his room and stared at his reflection, his narrow chin, his elegant nose, his high cheekbones, his satiny black hair, his glowing red eyes. Karak was right. Beneath the veneer the demon’s essence had given him, he was still Jacob Eveningstar. And it was the First Man of Dezrel who had facilitated the battle in Haven, who had brought about this very war by using tools such as this dragonglass mirror before him. How would that man use the tools at his disposal. .?

Dragonglass.

He traced his fingers along the elegant carvings on the mirror’s edge. The mirror had once belonged to Crian Crestwell, and Jacob Eveningstar had stepped through it to end the life of both the romantic dullard and his western whore. Dragonglass. It was an element with properties he had long ago learned how to manipulate. Jacob had used the pendant Brienna Meln had given him to commune with Clovis Crestwell, had whispered promises of power and might and glory into the egotistical bastard’s head. Dragonglass. A rare beauty created by the breath of the last dragon in Dezrel. The only items made from it that he knew of were this mirror, his and Clovis’s old pendants, and. . and. .

The blade. Winterbone, the sword, one of the greatest forged in the Mount Hailen armory, had a dragonglass crystal affixed to its handle. He laughed to himself, softly at first, then louder and louder until his cackle seemed as raucous as thunder. The sword was inside Mordeina’s walls, in the possession of the deformed Patrick DuTaureau. . which meant it was Velixar’s tool as well. He knew how to manipulate that mutant of a man as well as he did dragonglass.

“My dear Patrick,” he said into the mirror when his laughter died down, “I think your beloved little Nessa wishes to speak with you.”