Blood Of Gods

CHAPTER 17

When the first snowflakes fell, the barrage began. As had happened the past twenty-three nights, boulders pounded Mordeina’s walls as arrows sailed over the parapets. Only this time, the thousands lurking inside the settlement were ready. Ashhur had helped erect a massive stone bunker fifty yards from the walls, proclaiming the land between the bunker and the wall a dead zone. None but those assigned as watchmen were allowed to climb the stairs. All the rest were put to work crafting weapons and raising countless domiciles with the last of their timber. It was arduous work, but none complained, not when Ashhur marched among them, an expression of icy determination burning in his glowing yellow stare.

“Karak is baiting us,” the deity had said the week before, after allowing his children to cry and shriek praises to the heavens when he exited Manse DuTaureau alive. “He wishes us frightened and helpless. When he thinks us broken, and his strength at its greatest, he will come. When he does, he will not find sheep waiting for him, but wolves.”

Patrick should have been happy with this new change in attitude, but he was not. When the nightly bombardments began, he was a man conflicted: Part of him wished to climb the walls, drop down on the other side, and surge against the soldiers as he had when they’d penetrated the outer wall; another part wished to dash into Manse DuTaureau, climb into his mother’s bed, and hide.

The fear he now felt as he slogged through the freezing muck on this first dark, wintry evening, carrying a heavy block of ore, was entirely due to the nightmares. They’d begun days ago, assaulting him whenever he shut his eyes to get some much-needed rest. In the dreams he was a man haunted. Nessa came to him, her flesh torn and leaking pus, her hair falling out in clumps, and maggots writhing in the shallow black holes of her eyes. His dead sister hurled insults at him, casting blame his way. “You are a monster,” she cried in a voice that was always too far away. “You never truly loved me. If you loved me, why did you never come looking for me, big brother? Why didn’t you search for me? Why didn’t you save me?”

Every time, he woke up screaming.

The worst of it, though, was that of late the nightmares had begun to follow him into the waking hours. Exhausted as he was, he did his best to fulfill his daily duties to Ashhur. But no matter where he looked, he swore he saw Nessa, always just out of sight, mocking him, tormenting him. His head began to grow heavy as exhaustion took its toll. He stopped training his young warriors, for sleep-deprived as he was, he could hardly concentrate. Instead, he performed mindless tasks, moving this and that, gathering water, even spending time in the fields, dragging a plow behind him through the frozen earth, so Ashhur’s magic could help bring food up through the soil.

Men and women ducked beneath the stone bunker as arrows plinked off the top. They were hard at work, pounding with crude hammers on the blocks of ore Ashhur had lifted from deep within the ground in the northwest corner of the settlement. Some busied themselves stoking the fires that would heat the ore, while still others formed branches into slender rods and passed those rods to others to be fletched with crow feathers. The deity did his part as always, demonstrating to a large group of his children how to work with the ore, before using his godly magic to bend it to his will, stretching it, thickening it, forming it into blades of steel. Patrick watched his god, and when he dropped the heavy block he was carrying, it landed on his toe. In the ever-worsening cold, his thick leather boots did little to soften the blow.

“Fuck!” he shouted, hopping on one foot and squeezing his injured digit. He hated the cold, hated the winter. The only saving grace to the change in seasons was the fact that the corpses stacked on the other side of the stone walkway didn’t stink any longer.

Someone snickered behind him, but when he wheeled around to scream at the offender, he saw most everyone was hard at work. Even those whose attention was on him had words of compassion on their lips. Then he caught sight of a demonic, red-haired sprite from the corner of his eye, teeth bared behind rotten lips. When he whipped his head around to look, the vision was gone.

Someone grabbed his shoulder, and he almost reached for Winterbone, which still hung in its scabbard on his back. He breathed deeply, calming his nerves, and turned around to see Judarius standing there, a quizzical look on his face.

“What is wrong with you?” the brawny Warden asked.

Patrick shrugged. “Nothing for you to worry your ugly mug about. What are you doing off the wall anyway?”

If Judarius was insulted by the slight, he didn’t show it. Instead, he leaned over and whispered to one of the women fletching the arrows. The woman nodded, handing the Warden a crate made from birch bark and filled with at least a hundred finished arrows. The crate was heavy in her hands, but when Judarius snatched it from her, it looked as small as a breadbox. The Warden tucked it beneath his arm and lifted out one of the arrows, examining the sharpened steel arrowhead, running the pad of his thumb over the tip. Patrick felt confused as he watched him, and wavered on his feet. He suddenly found it so interesting and unbelievable that Ashhur had succeeded in creating nearly a complete armory in little more than three weeks.

“We needed more arrows,” Judarius said. “I am not much for archery myself, so I volunteered to retrieve them.”

“Oh,” Patrick said in a daze.

The Warden cocked his head. “Patrick, something is not right with you. More than usual, at any rate.”

“I know. Nightmares. Not feeling well.”

“Are you eating?”

“Eating what? There isn’t much food to go around, and there are over two hundred thousand people here who would gladly accept my portion. I can go without. I probably wouldn’t be able to keep it down anyhow.”

“Why? Are you sick?”

Patrick’s head grew fuzzy again, his vision doubling. He blinked, trying to get the two Judariuses that stood before him to merge into one image. The one on the left then began to bulge and warp, developing blackened eyes and familiar, slimmer features. The fires burning all around blinded him. His eyes rolled back, and he teetered forward. With his free hand, the Warden snatched Patrick by the arm before he fell.

“Patrick, this is starting to worry me.”

“Don’t,” Patrick said. His thoughts began to wander, his mouth moving as if on its own. “Forget me. Let’s talk about something useful. Where have you stationed the other Wardens?”

He didn’t know why, but he felt instantly engrossed in hearing the answer. Judarius released his arm and positioned the crate of arrows to be more stable. “There are three hundred assisting with preparations at the south wall. Another hundred patrol the citizens, assisting the people with anything they require. The rest are working the grounds, trying to coax crops from the soil. Why do you ask?”

It was a good question, actually, and strangely enough Patrick didn’t have an answer. Something about what Judarius said piqued his interest.

“Is no one guarding the western settlement?” he asked.

“Just the barest of skeleton crews,” Judarius said. The way the Warden was looking at him was strange. “There aren’t enough people on that side of the settlement, but you already know that.”

“And are they all armed?”

“Of course they are.”

“Stone or steel?”

“Mostly steel.”

Patrick shook his head, cursing silently to himself. His vision righted, and there was just Judarius there now, staring down at him while snowflakes fell in the background. He thought he saw that red-haired devil again, but he refused to believe it. It’s all in your head. Just stop it already.

“Doesn’t hurt to double-check these things,” he said, trying to convince himself as much as Judarius.

“Patrick, you don’t look well, and I think I know why,” the Warden said in a flat tone. “You need a good, violent fuck. And you could rip the bitch’s throat out afterward.”

Patrick stumbled back a step. “What?”

The Warden inclined his head. “I asked why such interest in the Wardens?”

“Wait. You didn’t. . ” Patrick shook his head. “I’m sorry, Judarius. Might be best if you head back to the archers. I’m not even making sense to myself.”

“Are you sure you do not wish-”

A low thud sounded, followed by another, and Judarius’s mouth snapped shut. The Warden stepped out from beneath the bunker and gazed at the wall. Patrick followed his stare. The rain of arrows had ceased, at least for the moment. Snow fell on his forehead, and the cold drove a spike of pain between his eyes.

Judarius turned around and faced north just as another muted thump rumbled the air. Patrick stood confused. The noise sounded like far-off thunder, which was rare during a snowstorm as light as this one. Even stranger was the pattering of rain he heard next.

Only it wasn’t rain, for a few moments later eight horses raced around the hill on which Manse DuTaureau sat. Each rider carried a torch, and the faces those torches illuminated were filled with fear.

“They are bombarding from the north!” one of the riders screamed. “Come, hurry!”

“Damn,” Judarius growled. He gazed down at Patrick, obviously angry with himself. “You were right. We should have had more men guarding all along the wall, not just here. Rosler told me he thought he counted fewer catapults than yesterday, but there was liquor on his breath, and I did not listen. Damn, damn, damn.” He slammed the crate of arrows into Patrick’s chest, almost knocking him over. “Take these to the archers. I will head up the new defenses.” Then he turned about face and began running along the ranks of confused people who stood outside the bunker. “Come, Marius! Grendel, Bosipherus, Ariel-to me! Karak is attacking to the north!”

At least twenty Wardens and another fifty humans joined Judarius in his mad sprint as he chased after the now-retreating eight horsemen. Soon they disappeared into the darkness, and a hush fell over all of those standing around watching. It seemed the only sounds to be heard were the crackling torches and the howl of the wind, until a ping rang out, and something whistled past Patrick’s ear. He started, stumbling in place, almost knocked over by the weight of his own sword.

“The arrows are falling!” called out a booming voice, and Patrick pivoted to see Ashhur marching along the long bunker, shoving people beneath it. “Take shelter now. Get yourselves-”

The god’s words were drowned out by a giant crash. Patrick whirled around and saw a boulder sailing over the wall, carrying with it bits of parapet. Nessa’s face was imprinted on the boulder, staring down at him with a wicked grin. He was frozen in place, too confounded to move, too frightened to do anything but watch as the huge chunk of rock began its descent. People screamed, trying to scamper out of the way of the flying boulder before it crushed them like the others had so many nights before. The scene was pure bedlam.

Something large flashed by him, knocking him over. He landed face first in the snow as arrows fell like rain on the white-sheathed ground. With great effort he lifted his head and looked on as Ashhur collided with the boulder. Patrick’s ears ached from the ensuing crack. Shards of rock rained down, and people shouted Ashhur’s name. Yet as the dust settled, Ashhur remained standing, hatred shining in his glowing eyes, making the area in front of him appear as bright as day.

Ashhur ordered his children to retrieve whatever weapons they could in the lull that followed. Patrick stood up, watching as myriad forms scurried to and fro in the space between the bunker and the wall. He shook himself out of his stupor and looked at the ground around him, seeing the birch bark crate smashed and arrows strewn about in the snow. Cursing, he snatched a large square of burlap from inside the bunker and laid it out on the ground, then proceeded to toss as many arrows as he could find atop it. He rolled the blanket and picked it up. It was heavy, but he didn’t care. He climbed atop the bunker and hopped down on the other side, heading for the wall.

It was difficult with his mismatched legs to maneuver through the slippery muck. All the people frantically trying to collect the enemy’s arrows made it even more difficult. Finally, he slipped, colliding with someone and sending them both to the ground. Rage burned inside him, and when he shook the snow from his eyes, he saw Nessa getting to her feet opposite him, inhumanly tall, her gray tongue dangling out, her lipless mouth smiling. Maggots tumbled from her eye sockets, only to turn into smoke when they touched the air.

Patrick forgot all about the arrows, about the archers atop the wall. All that mattered was the demon ghost. It hefted a large ax and stared at him.

“You aren’t Nessa!” Patrick shouted. “Stop fucking haunting me!”

He reached behind his back and grabbed Winterbone by the handle. In a single yank it was in his hands and he charged. His hatred gave him strength as he rumbled forward, sword held by his ear. The demon Nessa’s face contorted as she raised the ax in defense. Patrick screamed at the top of his lungs and leapt into the air, ready to split the beast in half with one mighty hew.

A large body collided with him from the side, sending him tumbling. He lost grip of Winterbone, the sword disappearing into the snow. He heard a crunch and shrieked. Needles of pain assaulted him from his neck down to his groin, and he curled into a ball and writhed.

“What is wrong with you?” asked a roaring voice.

Patrick looked up. Ahaesarus stood above him, shoulders rising and falling as he huffed. Patrick shifted, looking around the Master Warden to the crouching figure beyond. It was another Warden, Judah, holding his ax tight to his chest.

“I asked you a question,” demanded Ahaesarus.

Patrick rolled over, slumped onto his rear, and rubbed the sides of his head. His whole body was sore, his anger gone. For the first time in a while, his thoughts seemed clear despite his fatigue.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he glanced about for the bundle of arrows he’d dropped. “I didn’t know that was Judah. . ”

“Who else could it be?” Judah asked while he stood and shook himself off.

“I don’t know. . it’s just that. . Judarius asked me to bring arrows to the archers while he rushed off to the northern side of the wall. . and. . and I’ve been seeing things. . I’m sorry again. . ”

Patrick puffed out his cheeks and exhaled, closing his eyes.

“He called me ‘Nessa,’ ” he heard Judah say.

A moment later soft fingers touched Patrick’s misshapen cheek. He opened his eyes to see Ahaesarus squatting before him. The Master Warden looked at him with concern, almost pity, instead of anger. To Patrick, that was worse.

“Patrick, what is happening?” he asked.

“I. . don’t. . know. . ”

“Are you thinking clearly?”

He shook his head. “I seem to be now.”

“Did you call Judah your sister’s name?”

“I think I did. He had her face, rotten and disfigured.”

“Have you seen her often?”

Patrick hesitated and considered lying, but it would do no good. The Master Warden would smell the untruth as soon as it left his mouth. “Yes. I’ve been seeing her all the time. In both my dreams and my waking hours.”

“That is not normal,” Ahaesarus said, clutching his knee and leaning forward. “Let me see if I cannot find someone else lurking around in there.” He gazed deep into Patrick’s eyes as if searching for something. A few seconds later the Warden shook his head and leaned back. “I see nothing. No curse, no magic-only you. How do you feel?”

“Well, better,” said Patrick. Strangely enough, he did.

“Stress can be a demon for all of us, Patrick,” said Ahaesarus. “You have been working yourself to the bone and not sleeping. It is not healthy, and we need you healthy and alert. Go back to your friends. Lie down. Drink yourself into a stupor if you must. Just get some rest. I will bring the archers what they need.”

With that, the Master Warden gave him a pat on the leg, found his bundle of arrows in the snow, knocked the white stuff off it, and headed for the wall stairs. Patrick watched him through the falling snowflakes until he disappeared into the gathered blackness at the base of the wall. He then stretched, cracked his back, and stood up, slapping his forehead. Perhaps I should do as he says, he thought, though he also realized that, oddly enough, he really did feel better than he had in quite some time. Drained maybe, and more than a little tender in his joints, but his mind was clear. And when he glanced this way and that, taking in all that went on around him, there was no sight of his red-haired haunt.

He took a step back toward the bunker, but when he felt the lack of weight on his humped back he turned around. He had to find his sword, his precious Winterbone. Dropping to his hands and knees, he searched through the snow where he fell, and then he spotted a sword-shaped indent in a drift ten yards away. A smile stretched across his face as he crawled toward it, digging into the snow and muck with his numb fingers until they wrapped around the handle. He then rose once more, bringing Winterbone up along with him, and wiped the handle with the inside of his heavily padded jerkin before stuffing the blade back in its sheath. After that he began walking once more, the dream of drunkenness and passing out taking priority in his mind.

A few seconds later arrows again began to fall, and he had to run as fast as he could to get out of their range lest he catch one in the back. As he hopped up on the bunker and then dropped down on the other side, he spotted a wraithlike figure lurking in the shadows just out of sight.

“No,” he whispered, trying his best to ignore the apparition as he walked. “Please go away. Please, just leave me alone.”

His hope for sleep abruptly left him.