Blood Of Gods

CHAPTER 24

"Where is it?” Nessa hissed. Her red hair danced around her head like snakes. “Tell me where it is.”

“I don’t know!” Patrick shouted back at her. “You’re not real! Leave me alone!”

The wraith pressed forward, pus dripping from her eyes, her rotting teeth gnashing together. Patrick turned, but there was nowhere to go. He was surrounded on three sides by black cliffs that rose high into the heavens above him, cliffs whose surface seemed soft and malleable, expanding and contracting as if the very stone were alive. He backed up against one of the walls, and a stream of stinking fluid poured over his shoulder.

“Get away from me!” he screamed.

“You would forsake me?” Nessa asked. “You never loved me. Look at what you have created, you with your malformed body and black heart.”

Patrick lashed out, his fingernails digging into her flesh. The skin tore away with ease, exposing the white of her skull. Maggots crawled over his fingers. With a primal howl, the wraith shoved him backward. Patrick’s feet tangled in the muck, and he toppled over. Nessa landed atop him, pinning him, vomiting putrid slime all over his face.

“Stop! Please stop!”

“The second gate,” the vile image of his sister asked. “No walls have but one door. There must be another. Tell me where it is, dear brother, and I’ll leave you be. Tell me where. . ”

Something heavy struck him in the cheek.

“DuTaureau, snap out of it, dammit!”

Patrick blinked, and it wasn’t the wraith he was seeing, but Preston Ender. He glanced around. He sat on his bedroll in the long shack that had recently been built in their camp next to the Birch Forest. Sweat beaded up on his brow, and the whole of him was shaking. Preston knelt before him, hands on his shoulders. Behind the older man, the rest of the Turncloaks looked on with tired yet concerned eyes.

“Patrick, how do I look to you?” Preston asked him. “Am I myself or someone else?”

“You’re you,” Patrick said, shaking. “Ugly as sin, but you.”

“Good.”

“Was I asleep this time?”

The man ground his teeth together and grimaced. “Not exactly. Tell me. . what do you remember before your delusion?”

Patrick breathed deeply, trying to gather his thoughts, but nothing would come to him. All he saw was Nessa’s decaying flesh; all he heard was her voice, her pointed questions. .

“Nothing,” he said. “Last I remember, you were helping me into the shack after I collapsed.”

“That was two days ago,” said Preston. “You’ve been in here ever since.”

“I have?”

Preston nodded. “You were rife with fever. Ryann and Joff took turns wetting you down.”

“I thought you said I wasn’t sleeping.”

“You weren’t. You awoke after we returned from supping with the others. You seemed in good spirits. You told us about the time you took your sister to the delta and ran across the bandits attacking Crian Crestwell’s wagon, the day he handed you your sword.”

“I don’t remember any of that,” Patrick said in disgust. “What happened after?”

“You just. . drifted away. Began mumbling, but your eyes were open. An hour ago you started thrashing, and I tried to restrain you, but you shoved me off. Then you started asking me nonsense about hidden gates. What is it that you remember?”

Patrick frowned, straining his memory. To have been out for so long, surely he’d dreamed many dreams, but it had gone by so quickly.

“I was being chased,” he said. “By Nessa’s spirit again. She asked me about a hidden gate.” He looked at Preston gravely. “This isn’t random, Preston. This isn’t my subconscious or guilt haunting me.”

“No?”

He shook his head vehemently, rapping his forehead with his knuckles. “Something is. . in here, damn it. Something, someone, I don’t know who or how, but Ahaesarus was wrong, he had to have been wrong. . ”

Little Flick stepped forward. “Mister Patrick? Are you gonna be all right?”

“Shut it, you halfwit,” snapped his brother Big Flick. He yanked the large youth backward. “Leave the man be!”

“Enough, both of you!” Preston roared before turning back to Patrick. “These delusions have gone on for weeks. You need to speak with Ashhur. I’ll go to him if you won’t.”

“Um,” said Tristan with a frown, “I think that might not be possible. The god organized some big deal for tonight. Something about the bodies in the nook. He’ll be busy.”

“Then we interrupt him,” snapped Preston. “This is more important than corpses, I’d say.”

Patrick watched the conversation, his mind wavering once more. “We might not have to. I know of. . of someone. . who might. . be of. . Az. . Az will. . go away!”

Nessa stepped out from behind Preston, grinning her skeletal grin. Preston grinned along with her. Patrick’s vision began to swim. Not real, not real! Get out of my head! But his brain reacted on its instinctual fear. His fist lashed out, catching Preston square in the face. The man fell backward, clutching at his nose as blood seeped between his fingers. Patrick rolled to the side, avoiding his sister’s ghost when she lunged for him. His fingers found Winterbone’s handle, the sword resting beside his bedroll. He yanked the blade from its sheath, shrieking as if a demon infested his soul. Stop it, stop it! his mind screamed, but he couldn’t control his actions. It felt like he was being compressed, driven into himself by some potent outer force. His vision slowly darkened.

At last! an ethereal voice proclaimed inside his skull.

He felt his body turn, and he sensed words on his lips. It’s all right, his mouth was about to say, words his brain didn’t believe, but the Turncloaks were on him before he could make a sound. They shoved him to the ground while he thrashed, Patrick cuffing Preston’s son Ragnar on the side of the head and kicking Joff Goldenrod in the groin. In payment for that, Big Flick clouted his misshapen jaw.

Stars filled his vision, and Patrick felt his eyes roll into the back of his head.

There was murmuring above him, but he could see nothing but blackness. Inside that blackness lurked Nessa. He clutched Winterbone tightly to his chest, like a lifeline. Why was he holding it so tightly? He bit down hard on his tongue, trying to force himself back to reality. It worked, at least a little. He chanced opening his eyelids just a tad and saw Preston kneeling opposite him, blood trickling over his lips and drenching his gray beard. Patrick rose up on his elbows. Every inch of him felt tight yet dulled, as if he were a guest in his own body. I know you’re in there, you bastard, he told the invader in his head. No one answered, but he felt the presence nonetheless. It was wary now. Patrick sat up with a grunt, his world wavering. It took a great effort to stand. His knees felt stiff, unresponsive. It took an even greater effort to lurch toward the wall and snatch Winterbone’s sheath. He shoved the sword inside, shaking all the while, and held the scabbard out to Little Flick. The large young soldier hesitated for a moment, then took it from him before handing the blade to Preston.

The whole time, the other Turncloaks watched him in silence.

“What do we do?” Joffrey finally asked.

“Take me to Azariah,” Patrick said, meeting Preston’s worried gaze. “Fucking carry me if you have to.”

Everything was a daze as Patrick’s friends guided him through the cold night. It was everything he could do to stay upright on his horse, Big and Little Flick riding on either side of him in case he fell over.

There was pressure behind his eyes, and he squeezed them shut. You won’t see, he told the invader in his head. I won’t let you. Eventually the pressure relented, and he allowed himself to look at his surroundings once more. Even the darkness seemed much too dark, and he caught a flash of red in the distance, dashing through the black.

Not this time. Not. . this. . time.

Preston led the group up Manse DuTaureau’s high hill, and the Flicks helped Patrick out of the saddle once they reached the top. The two large boys supported him on either side, nearly carrying him through the front doors after Preston opened them. The rest of the Turncloaks followed behind them in silence. Patrick could almost feel their concern.

“Azariah!” Preston bellowed as they walked through the manse. The old soldier had Winterbone balanced across his arms, and Patrick eyed the sword greedily. “Azariah, come quickly! You’re needed!”

Patrick heard a few people yelp from somewhere deep in the manse, obviously surprised by the sudden intrusion at such a late hour. Patrick hoped his other sisters had the good sense to stay in their rooms. In no way did he want them to see him in such a state.

Finally, the short Warden appeared as they approached the makeshift throne room at the far end of the manse. Azariah stood watching them, a look of bemusement on his face, the white robes that he now always wore draped around him. Patrick eyed him weakly, feeling drunk, his head bobbing from side to side.

“What happened?” Azariah asked.

“I. . we’re not sure,” said Preston. “Patrick wants you to look him over.”

Azariah leaned over Patrick, hesitated a moment, and then stepped back, eyes widening. “Quickly, bring him inside.”

The Flicks lugged him through the doors and set him down on the slab upon which Ashhur had once been laid. The Turncloaks stepped back as Azariah went to work, checking Patrick’s pulse, feeling his neck. The Warden’s lips twisted into a grimace. Patrick felt a wave of hatred rising up in him, followed by a desperate desire to kill Azariah where he stood.

“Flicks,” he murmured. “You might want to hold me down. . ”

The next time Azariah went to touch him, Patrick’s fist flung for his face. Thankfully for the Warden’s sake, the two big boys were faster.

“He’s feverish,” Azariah said, seemingly nonplussed by the outburst. “How long has he been like this?”

“Weeks,” said Preston. “Maybe as long as two months. He’s not certain.”

“Sickness?”

Patrick vehemently shook his head, which made Azariah’s mouth tighten.

“He’s been seeing his dead sister,” Preston said. “Visions, nightmares-things like that. It’s strange because. . he said he thinks someone’s in there with him. Is that possible? Ahaesarus looked him over a couple weeks ago but saw nothing.”

Azariah gazed down at Patrick. “And you thought I could see what he could not?”

Patrick nodded fervidly. The Warden allowed himself a smile.

“I suppose I should feel proud of your confidence,” he said touching him. This time when the revulsion came, Patrick fought it down without need of the Flicks. “And something is awry, I’m certain of it. It’s subtle, though. I’m not surprised Ahaesarus failed to notice it, especially if you weren’t as bad then.”

“What is it?” Ryann asked. “What do you see?”

Azariah’s eyes were closed as he spoke.

“It’s like smoke coming from his eyes,” the Warden said. “Little tendrils of it, so faint. . but not connected to anyone afar. No curse, no ancient wards, just tendrils. . connected to. . ”

Suddenly every single warning instinct in Patrick flared. He surged to his feet, flooded with strength he never knew he had. Both Flicks hurled themselves against him, each holding an arm, and even then it was not enough to keep Patrick from ramming his head into Azariah’s chest. As the Warden stumbled back, more men grabbed hold of Patrick, slamming him down onto the slab. His every muscle tensed, Patrick struggled, screaming out mindlessly.

Azariah whirled around, still clutching his chest. “Give me his sword!” he screamed. Without another word he leapt at Preston. The old soldier almost threw Patrick’s massive blade at the Warden. Azariah snatched up the scabbard and hastily threw it down on the slab beside Patrick.

“A hammer!” the short Warden shouted. “Anything! Something hard and heavy! Now!”

Ryann Matheson released Patrick’s arm to hand him the undersized maul the young soldier kept hitched to his belt. Azariah quickly grabbed it and lifted it above Winterbone’s handle. Patrick watched it all happen, and in his heart he knew-he knew what would happen.

“Don’t!” he shrieked. “It’ll kill me, you bastard! It’ll kill me! ”

Azariah brought down the maul. The dragonglass crystal adorning Winterbone’s handle shattered.

A puff of smoke rose from the splintered crystal, and Patrick snapped back into himself. His hand recoiled, the strain in his muscles gone just like that. The fog in his mind lifted, and the dullness of his muscles faded away. For the first time in a very long while, he felt like himself. He glanced nervously to the side, searching for Nessa’s ghastly image, but she was nowhere to be found.

“It’s gone,” he said, turning to the short Warden. “Praise Ashhur, it’s gone!”

Azariah remained leaning over Patrick’s sword and the broken crystal, his expression one of pure dread. “Dragonglass is a powerful mineral. Within it is a bit of the fire that created it, and within that fire is the very power that made the dragons. Two large pieces of it could create a gateway of sorts, and it can be useful in communicating over long distances. Also, if a piece is close by, it can be used to manipulate the mind of another.” Azariah let out a disgusted grumble. “I allowed an old friend of mine to experiment with it on me once.”

“Let me guess,” said Patrick, sliding off the slab. “Would that friend be our beloved Jacob Eveningstar?”

Azariah nodded. Patrick grunted, squeezing fingers into fists until his nails bit into his palms. His anger made his neck grow hot.

“If Jacob or Velixar-or whoever-has been inside your head for some time, he has seen everything you have,” said Azariah. “He knows our weaknesses and our strengths. And if he knows, so does Karak.”

“They don’t know everything,” said Patrick. “He kept asking about a hidden gate of some sort, but I never knew if one existed. Does it?”

The short Warden leaned over and looked into his eyes once more, as if making sure Patrick was alone in his head. “There is a hidden postern gate,” he said. “The entrance is just outside the birch forest, veiled beneath a false floor covered with discarded branches. It was Ashhur’s last resort, a tunnel wide and tall enough to accommodate a whole fleet of carriages, if worst came to worst.”

“Where does this tunnel end?” asked Preston.

“It empties out into a rocky precipice three miles from here, by the river.”

Patrick leaned forward, grinning. If felt good to do so again. “Perfect.”

Azariah looked at him quizzically. “Perfect?”

“Yes, perfect. Azariah, listen to me. I need you to go tell Ahaesarus what just transpired. Tell him that Karak likely knows everything about our defenses. And do it quickly. I have a feeling Karak won’t wait long to kill us once and for all.”

“And what will you do?” asked the Warden.

Patrick’s grin grew wider. “For the first time in months I feel like myself again-and not just that, Azariah; I feel pissed. I’m taking whoever will come with me through that secret tunnel. We’re going to loop around and attack the bastards from behind.”

Preston grinned, and it was obvious to Patrick whom his first volunteer would be.

“This is reckless,” Azariah insisted. “Such desperation is suicide.”

“Might very well be,” Patrick replied, rage churning within him. “But I’m tired of waiting here to die, and I want my shot at revenge. Your old friend has been tormenting me for weeks now, using my own sister against me. It’s about time I give him a taste of his own medicine. He wants to know everything I know, see everything I see? So fucking be it. I’ll cut off his damn head and carry it around wherever I go, no dragonglass required.”

When the dragonglass shattered, severing the link, Velixar leapt back into himself, panting. He shook his head to clear the mist, then threw his chin toward the sky and screamed. The canvas walls of his pavilion billowed with the force of his rage. The red glow of his eyes dwindled.

So close! He’d broken the misshapen man, had finally been able to step inside his mind and take control, just as the Beast of a Thousand Faces had done to so many elves a thousand years before. Patrick’s erratic behavior would have been at an end, granting Velixar an assassin on the inside. Patrick was far stronger, resisting far longer than the mutated wretch had any right to, and in the end it failed. Dragged before Azariah, it was only a matter of time before the Warden discovered the dragonglass crystal and destroyed it. Velixar felt the waste of too much precious time, spending all these weeks torturing Patrick, manipulating him, gaining only a few modest scraps of information for his efforts.

If there was one thing Velixar loathed, it was wasting his time.

He stood with a huff and stormed out of his pavilion into the cold night air. Pulling his robe about himself, he shivered once before forcing his body to be still. There were soldiers standing nearby, guarding against deserters, and he was High Prophet of Karak, the swallower of demons. The cold should hold no sway over one with such power. He could not show weakness before them.

Velixar gazed at Karak’s pavilion looming over the camping army three hundred feet away. A rare fire burned within, making its walls glow softly. He heard Karak let out a groan. Velixar started toward his chosen god’s dwelling, hastening his steps. Something felt wrong. Something felt very wrong. By the time he’d crossed half the distance, he’d broken out into a run.

He burst through the pavilion flap to find Karak sitting in front of the raging fire, his knees drawn up. The deity held his head in his hands. The groaning Velixar had heard was actually a growl that sounded eerily similar to that of the Final Judges when offering a sinner their special form of justice.

“My Lord?” he asked as he knelt on the other side of the fire.

Karak’s eyes rose to meet his, bearing sorrow, frustration, and the exhaustion of eternity. As they stared, Karak’s troubles infused his every fiber. Such a reaction. Few things could spark it, and in his gut, Velixar had a suspicion. .

“The demon,” Velixar said. “What has he done?”

Karak’s jaw tightened.

“Darakken has regained its old form, in the flesh.”

Just as he’d thought, then. Troublesome, especially if Karak placed the blame on his head. Had he not promised to control the beast? Was it not his journal that contained the required spell to bring back the demon’s mortal form?

Speaking of which. .

“Is my journal with him still?” he asked. There were many other secrets within, secrets he disliked the idea of the ancient demon reading.

Karak shook his head. “The Darakken will carry your book always, High Prophet. That book now lies within the heart of the creature it helped bring about. Just like the Black Spire, it cannot be seen again.”

“What happened to the Spire?” asked Velixar.

“In the aftermath of Darakken’s creation, the Black Spire was exhausted of its magic and shattered.”

Velixar looked down. His journal was gone, and the Spire as well.

“That is. . unfortunate.”

“All is not lost,” Karak said. “You have the knowledge of ages within you, High Prophet. You can pen your journal anew, if that is what you wish to do. As for the Black Spire, its loss is fortuitous. It was the Spire that created the desert at the heart of Ker, its power draining all life from the earth surrounding it. With it gone, the rains will soon come, as will grass and trees. Vibrancy will emerge where once there was desolation. Those lands will be truly hospitable once more.”

“Lands that will soon be yours,” Velixar said, realizing why Karak considered it a boon. Still, the loss stung. Velixar had hoped to prod the secrets from the crystal one day.

“Now that Darakken is whole once more,” Velixar asked, each word tentative, “will it be joining us?”

“No,” said Karak. He slid his legs beneath him and sat up straight, the reds and yellows from the fire casting flickering shadows across his face. “As if from a dream, I remember when we were whole and gave life to that. . thing. It is nothing but hunger and desire, my prophet. It will not come to us. Without Clovis to help guide it, the thought will never even enter its head. It was formed for one purpose, and that purpose will take it to the Stonewood Forest.”

“To slaughter the elves.”

Karak nodded.

“Forgive me, my Lord,” said Velixar, crossing his arms over his chest and bowing his head in supplication. “In my pride I thought to control it, to use it as a tool. Whatever consequences such failure deserves, I accept them humbly.”

“You were a fool to think your power sufficient,” Karak said, and his words burned into Velixar’s chest. “But at least you now understand your foolishness. As for the ancient demon. . for now it will spread chaos, and for once, I feel that chaos is exactly what we need.”

That sounded like blasphemy to Velixar, but how could words of blasphemy come from the lips of a god?

“I don’t understand,” he said, figuring that a safe enough response.

“Despite all the horrors Celestia has allowed to fall upon her children, she still loves them. They are her creations, her greatest achievement.” Karak’s gaze turned distant, and he smiled. “Her focus will be drawn to the elves and their struggles. If she is prompted to intervene again, it will be to defend them, not Ashhur.”

“Or it will cause her to loathe this war all the more,” Velixar dared suggest.

Karak slowly shook his head.

“If she seeks to end it, then let her end it. I will not let fear of her guide my actions. All around us, this entire world is filled with chaos, but within the chaos I am learning to see threads of order. We can cling to this still, find opportunity even in the worst of hardships. This is one such opportunity, my friend, and one we must take advantage of immediately.”

Velixar stood, his entire body shaking with anticipation. “What do we do now?”

“Everything has aligned, the threads coming together, with Darakken’s creation the final knot. We have an army that will soon go hungry, yet despite our lack of resources, they have worked diligently. Though the magical barrier my brother raised still stands, I now have thirty-six towers and twenty-nine catapults, along with as many ladders and rams as we could possibly utilize. The time to attack is now, my prophet. Once inside Mordeina’s walls, that barrier will be useless. Once inside those walls, the might of the demon you swallowed will at last be put to the test.”

Velixar grinned. “I look forward to that, my Lord.”

“Our strike will be quick and deadly. Before the sun rises, I want all divisions mobilized. Inform the Lord Commander of everything you have learned from the mutant’s mind, of all defensive positions and resources my brother has at his disposal.”

There it was, the mention of the malformed DuTaureau. Velixar opened his mouth to admit yet another failure to his chosen god, but Karak continued.

“This will be our day in the sun,” said the deity. “This is the day that will usher forth a united Dezrel. Do not dwell on your failures or what you feel was lost. When Ashhur falls, when his people bear witness to my might and bend their knees, all shall be forgotten. Now go forth and ready the soldiers for what lies ahead.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

The sky above him was dark as Velixar withdrew from the tent, the type of deepened black that comes just before sunrise. He walked a straight line through the snow, the walled settlement of Mordeina a faint outline in the distance. No longer did those walls seem unassailable. Karak’s approval had steeled him, had let him see that the outcome of the coming battle had already been written. They would storm those walls, and they would conquer the people within. For Karak was the god with vision-the deity willing to risk everything to bring about that vision-whereas Ashhur was a sentimental fool. It was that timidity, that naïve trust in feeble, foolish humankind that had led Velixar to choose the god of the east. Karak was the stronger. Strength led to destruction and chaos, and from destruction and chaos would emerge creation and true order. Might was visceral, real; compassion was a belief and nothing more.

Heart soaring, Velixar marched through the sprawling camp, seeking out the Lord Commander. The day of reckoning was at hand.