Blood Of Gods

CHAPTER 1

Karak’s eyes shone with liquid fire that burned through the morning mist. The god paced across the dead brown earth covering the valley in which his army camped, his gaze constantly returning to the walled township that loomed in the distance. Velixar saw anger in his stare; anger that grew even more pronounced whenever he looked at the massive tree that had risen from the ground, sealing the gap in the wall his fireball had created. The deity’s giant hands curled into fists, and the brightness of his eyes intensified. It was only when he turned his head to see his near fifteen thousand children busy at work that his stern expression softened even the tiniest bit.

The morning air was crisp, and the evening dew still lingered, causing Velixar’s cloak to cling to his flesh. Though a cool wind blew, the High Prophet felt no chill. The fire burning inside him, stoked by the demon whose essence he had swallowed, was all the warmth he needed.

He had risen before sunrise along with Lord Commander Malcolm Gregorian, joining the one-eyed man in awakening more than two hundred of the soldiers who had been sleeping fitfully in their tents. There was much work to do: bark that needed to be stripped, stakes that required sharpening, sanded timber that had to be fastened together with twine and iron nails. It all filled the wide expanse of the valley with a bustle of activity as saws ripped through wood and hammers thumped.

Yet despite the soldiers’ work, despite all the lessons Karak taught them, progress was maddeningly slow. They’d built sixty ladders, stacked neatly in twelve piles to the left of the construction site, but they had only managed to finish three meager siege engines over the eleven days since their initial attack on Mordeina’s walls: two solid towers and a single catapult. The rest of the partially formed engines sat useless throughout the valley, half-formed giants awaiting the necessary materials to complete them.

It wasn’t the soldiers’ fault, Velixar knew; when Ashhur, Karak’s brother god, had created a legion of grayhorn men to defend his people, he had stripped the land of life, which accounted for the dead grass crunching beneath their feet. The trees of the nearby forest were brittle as spent tindersticks, crumbling away in a rain of dust when struck by an ax. A weakened Karak had tried to raise more trees from deep within the soil, but it seemed Ashhur had decimated the land to such an extent that nothing could grow there any longer.

“It will be years until this earth is fertile again,” Karak had told him with a growl. “I have no time for this.” And so the soldiers carried their axes a mile toward the Gods’ Road, chopped down the trees in the healthy forest, and lugged the trunks all the way back to the camp, where they could be stripped and quartered and assembled into tools of war.

Velixar eyed the workers, sweat dripping off their brows as they slaved away. He did not like the weariness in their expressions, or the labor in their movements. Each hammer seemed to weigh a hundred pounds; each plank lifted with a grunt as if it weighed ten times that much. The soldiers were tired and hungry, and each morning he noticed that a handful who had been working dutifully the day before had disappeared in the night. The previous evening he’d ordered the Lord Commander to have the camp watched while it slept, and Malcolm’s sentries caught six soldiers attempting to tiptoe out of the valley under the cover of darkness. Those six were now fastened to a post in front of the camp, beaten and bound by throat, wrist, and ankle, pleading for mercy with any who passed within earshot.

As morning progressed and the clouds passed over the sun, the pleading of those captured intensified. Velixar stood back and watched with interest as a soldier approached the bound men, offering a cup of mulled wine. Malcolm was on the soldier a second later, yanking him backward by the hair and tossing him to the ground. The Lord Commander pressed his boot into the man’s throat, his one good eye watching the young soldier struggle. None of the other soldiers came forward to aid their distressed comrade; despite the fact that his left arm was still in a sling, every soldier knew Malcolm Gregorian was not to be trifled with. Finally the soldier’s protests dwindled, and Malcolm removed his foot before giving him a swift kick in the side and demanding he get back to work.

Velixar felt a heavy hand fall on his shoulder, and he gazed up at Karak’s face.

“Yes, my Lord?” he asked quietly.

The god knelt beside him. “There is unrest among my children,” he said.

“They are hungry, my Lord, and exhausted. Our caches of salted meats and vegetables have dwindled. We haven’t enough to sustain so many men.”

That was the second price of the dead land they camped on; the quest for food had become as trying as the quest for lumber, and required just as many men to retrieve, which further slowed progress. Their only other recourse was to wait for the next train of supply wagons to arrive from Neldar, but they could be waiting for those supplies for a week, if not a month. To alleviate the stresses on his god’s men, Velixar had dumped the foraging duties onto the elf Aerland Shen and his band of a hundred Ekreissar, the best warriors the Quellan elves had to offer. Though proficient with bows, the elves were fighters, not hunters, and the provisions they returned with proved dissatisfying. In the end Velixar could only hope that the people of Mordeina, trapped as they were inside their walls, suffered far worse.

“They are human,” Karak said. “They will persevere if their love for me is true.”

“Love does not fill an empty stomach, my Lord.”

Karak’s glowing eyes turned to the six bound men.

“Why are the deserters tied up in view of all?”

“To strip them of their freedom, to teach the others that abandonment will be punished harshly.”

Karak grunted. “You disappoint me. Losing freedom is a paltry reprimand, High Prophet. Think of a more effective method to teach my children.”

“I will, my Lord,” Velixar said with a bow.

Karak stood and turned away, loping back to his massive pavilion. Velixar threw open his cloak and marched through the throng of laborers, making his way toward the deserters. They saw him approach, and six sets of eyes widened in fear.

“Have mercy!” one of them begged. “We were starving and only wished to find food!”

The captive closest to the post lifted his head to the heavens. “Listen to your prophet,” he said loudly. He had straight, silvery hair, copper eyes, and a firm square jaw, as if he had sprouted equally from both the Crestwell and Mori lines. “We were caught; now we pay the price like men.”

The others fell silent. By then, the sounds of construction had died away behind Velixar as the working soldiers stepped forward to watch the spectacle.

Velixar tilted his head at the man. “What is your name, soldier?”

“Donnell Frost,” he said, dipping his head in respect.

“And where are you from?”

“Felwood, High Prophet.”

“I see.” Velixar looked down the line at the pathetic, whimpering men. “And the rest of them, as well?”

The man nodded. “We all worked in the armory.”

“And did your cohort speak the truth? Was your party foraging for food?”

Donnell’s staid expression never changed.

“We were not, High Prophet.”

“Shut up, Donnell!” shouted a captive with a scar running across his brow.

Velixar squinted, the red glow of his eyes intensifying, and the scarred captive sank back in his restraints, clutching at his throat. “Go on, soldier,” Velixar told Donnell. “Tell it, and tell it true.”

Donnell’s eyes brimmed with tears even though his manner remained strong. “We thought the situation hopeless. With the goddess defending Ashhur, what chance is there of victory? She would strike us down the moment we tried to scale those walls.”

“Is that so?” asked Velixar, his heart sinking in his chest at the words.

“It is.” Donnell’s eyes glanced toward his cohorts. “It’s been months since we laid eyes on our families and bedded our wives, so we thought-all of us-that we should return home.”

Velixar took a deep breath, gathering his strength. “And was this the correct choice?”

Once more, Donnell dipped his head. “It was not, High Prophet. We succumbed to weakness.”

“Asshole,” one of the other captives muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

Velixar took a step backward and turned to face the massive crowd gathered behind him.

“These men are guilty of blasphemy of the highest order!” he shouted. “The greatest sin we children of Karak may commit is to turn away from the one who created us. The love of your god fills your lungs with breath, your muscles with strength, your minds with knowledge. Without that love. . ” He spun back around and faced the captives.

“Without that love, you deserve none of it.”

Velixar raised his hands above his head and reached down deep within himself, accessing the demon’s ancient knowledge. Shadows swirled around his fingertips, black lightning sparked, and the red glow from his eyes heightened tenfold. He felt power surge through him, making his every hair stand on end. He then lowered his gaze to the deserters, imagined their bodies undone, their insides boiling, their tissue and fibers dissolving.

And then it came to pass.

The screams of the bound men were deafening before they died. All but Donnell. The copper-eyed, silver-haired man remained unharmed, though he silently shook.

This one is nearly as faithful as Malcolm, Velixar thought. Such a shame.

“The others were undeserving of Karak’s mercy,” Velixar said, addressing the bloodstained man but ensuring his voice was loud enough for those gathered to hear. “You, Donnell Frost, have shown wisdom even when facing death, and courage before fear. Your punishment shall be swift, your death painless, your soul made pure for the eternity to follow.”

Despite his constraints, the man bowed low. “Thank you, High Prophet.”

The heavily scarred Lord Commander Malcolm was the one to unfasten Donnell’s restraints and lead him to the edge of the construction site, in the shadow of a completed siege tower. As Velixar watched, the doomed man knelt and presented his neck. A young soldier helped Malcolm out of his sling. Malcolm winced as he reached behind his back and slid Darkfall, his giant sword, from its sheath. The Lord Commander held the sword above his head with both hands. “For Karak!” he shouted. A moment later Donnell’s head rolled across the dead grass, his lifeless copper eyes open, staring heavenward.

After the body was disposed of and the head was carried away to Velixar’s tent, the soldiers went back to work on the engines with renewed, fear-fueled vigor. Troubled, Velixar climbed the low hill on which Karak’s pavilion sat. His eyes kept turning toward Mordeina, its massive walls, and the tree Celestia had brought up from the earth to thwart them. In his mind, he heard Donnell’s words endlessly looping: “With the goddess defending Ashhur, what chance is there of victory?”

“Have you taught my children a lesson, High Prophet?” Karak asked when Velixar stepped through the flap and entered the pavilion. The god’s back was to him as he sat cross-legged in the middle of the tent’s empty expanse. It was a pose Velixar often found the god in whenever he came calling.

“I have, my Lord.” He hesitated before adding, “I also learned a lesson myself.”

That piqued Karak’s interest, and the deity turned about to face him. “Yes?”

“We seem to have a problem, my Lord. A problem of perception.” Velixar’s heart raced faster with every word he spoke.

Karak’s glowing eyes narrowed. “Go on.”

“Some of your children fear the goddess.” He began pacing a circle around the deity, hesitant to look Karak in the eye. “Though Chief Shen and the Quellan try to convince them otherwise, they all witnessed Celestia raise that damn tree to protect Ashhur, as well as crush your second meteor of fire.”

“They do not believe in the righteousness of my quest?”

“Your righteousness is not in question. It is that they doubt our army can be victorious if the goddess has sided with Ashhur.”

“Doubt is fear’s insidious brother, and much harder to defeat,” said Karak, and his suddenly wistful, reflective tone eased Velixar’s nerves. “Once given life, it spreads like a disease, forever growing stronger. We must crush it early and with due haste.”

“I know this,” Velixar said, and despite his trepidation, he voiced his own fear. “But my Lord. . are they right? Can we find victory if Celestia fights alongside Ashhur?”

Karak shook his head. “Once more you disappoint me, High Prophet. If Celestia truly fought alongside my brother, none of us-myself, you, this entire force we have gathered-would be here any longer. She is cosmic, she is eternal. My brother and myself were like that once, when we were whole, but no longer. We shattered ourselves to pieces, thinking that if we walked among humankind our leadership would be more potent, our relationship like a father to a child. Foolish, perhaps, but there is nothing to be done about it now. Until we once again rise to the heavens, we are weaker than she. Celestia could eliminate each and every one of us in a single human heartbeat.”

“But she defended Ashhur. She protected him.”

“She did, but not for the reasons you might think,” the deity said with an impatient grunt. “Celestia may love my brother, but she desires balance and carries a deep sense of fairness in her breast. Sometimes I wonder if she thinks Ashhur was unfairly pushed to war, or unprepared for this conflict. But more than anything, she will protect her world, and that is why we must be patient. We must be calm. We must show, not just to our own people but the very heavens itself, that we act in righteousness, that our war was inevitable, our victory a necessary.”

“As you say, I believe,” Velixar said with a bow. “But how do we know she will not interfere again? So long as our children believe the goddess is against us, their doubt will foster and grow.”

Karak frowned.

“Will my word not be enough?”

Velixar shook his head. “Consider that their own failure, my Lord, but they will not. Not while that ironbark tree blocks our path.”

His god let out a sigh.

“Our number of siege engines will grow, and soon Darakken will join our side. Come then, we shall assault the walls, and when we do, and Celestia stays her power so our battle may play out, all will understand.”

It made sense, but something bothered Velixar. If the goddess sought fairness and balance. .

“We should attack now,” he said, suddenly snapping his eyes up from the earth to meet his god’s gaze. “Before Darakken arrives.”

“We have a paltry three engines. Any attack would be fruitless.”

“Perhaps,” said Velixar with a grin. “But as you say, our men will believe once we attack again and the goddess stays her hand. We only need to bloody Ashhur’s nose to show our men that victory may still be at hand.”

Karak rose to his feet, and he put a giant hand on top of Velixar’s shoulder.

“You are wise,” he said. “And I could not be prouder of my prophet. I sense my brother’s weakness, for just as we were struck by Celestia’s interference, so too was he caught in its power. Those within the walls suffer hunger, and chaos will sow among their ranks. If valor may lead to victory while our foes brace for a much later battle. . ”

He smiled.

“Ready one of the towers, and gather a battalion of two hundred. Ensure the Lord Commander holds back his greatest warriors until I give the order. Come dusk, we will demonstrate to my children that the only thing they have to fear is my wrath.”