Blood Of Gods

CHAPTER 30

After a while, it was hard for Ahaesarus to tell the difference between the walking dead and their living counterparts-other than those missing limbs, that is. They all had the same blank expressions on their faces, moved with the same hunched, uneven gaits, and were covered with equal amounts of filth. If not for the tears shed by the living and the gaping wounds marking the flesh of the shuffling corpses, they might as well have been one and the same.

Over the last four days, Ahaesarus had taken a rough count of the reanimated dead that stood guard outside Mordeina’s walls. Their numbers included four thousand soldiers of Karak’s and sixteen thousand of Ashhur’s children. The remaining three hundred and twenty-nine were Ahaesarus’s brothers in servitude. They towered above the rest, majestic even in death, their skin pale and their clothes tattered. Of the original thousand that had been saved by Celestia and Ashhur when the winged demons descended on Algrahar, only one hundred and eighty-three remained living. Ahaesarus thought of the destruction he had witnessed during those fateful days, of the screams of his family and the ripping of steel through flesh, and it came to him that everything had come full circle. His second life had become just as anguished as his first. In his dark moments before sleep, he wondered if it all had been worth the trouble for him and his brothers.

Of course it was. We helped create Paradise. We helped forge peace.

Yet now that peace was gone. Now Paradise was in shambles, Karak setting fire to the countryside as he fled back to his kingdom across the river. The eastern sky glowed red day and night. All of it, ruined. And for what? What remained now that all safety and prosperity was gone? He looked down at his right leg. Beneath the thick fabric of his breeches, there would be a white scar there, encircling his calf entirely, a reminder of a wound that would have been mortal had Ashhur not been there to mend him-though the god had been too weak, too overly strained, to heal him completely. He flexed the leg, and felt the dull ache of pain in his bones. It was a sensation he knew would follow him to his death, whenever that happened to be, and loathing churned in his gut.

There is justice. There is retribution.

He heard a familiar pleading voice above the murmur of beseeching sobs and looked up. The living citizens of Paradise were weaving their way through the wall of undead, seeking out their loved ones as they had been for days now. He scanned their numbers, searching for the voice he’d heard, and found Judarius standing above the other undead, his dark hair matted and clumped in greasy tendrils, his face a mask of ruin. Azariah was standing before him, grasping his dead brother’s hand. The shortest Warden muttered words of a long-forgotten prayer, an entreaty to Rana, the god of their long-dead world. It was a prayer Ahaesarus knew well: “Treaty of the Fallen,” an appeal to the god of Algrahar to watch over the souls of the deceased. Ahaesarus had spoken those words many times in his former life, when he had been a priest in the Temple of Forever Light. He gulped down the bile that gathered in the back of his throat and began walking.

By the time he reached Azariah, the Warden had released his brother’s cold, dead hands. Azariah’s eyes were downcast, his arms crossed over his chest. The long white robe he wore was splotched with mud and dried blood. Azariah had spent much of the last four days among Mordeina’s wounded, mending bodies and souls alike, and Ahaesarus wondered if this was his first trip outside the walls. He placed a hand on the shorter Warden’s shoulder. He wanted to say something comforting to his colleague but couldn’t think of the proper words.

“He often surprised me,” Azariah said without looking up.

“How so?”

Azariah shook his head, a sad smile on his lips. “Back home, Judarius was a ruffian. Callous, belligerent, full of anger, and always drunk. All he ever wished to do was fight, and it was only when Father had had enough of his antics and sent him to the Citadel that he harnessed his anger. Judarius took to the teachings of Rana’s paladins, and he calmed. He was only forty-three when he was christened a knight of the Order of the Two Suns, the youngest ever given the title.”

Ahaesarus looked down at his friend, stunned. “He was accepted into the knighthood? He told me he was simply in the honor guard of Rana’s Shrine.”

“That is because his past shamed him,” said Azariah, gazing back up at the ruined face of his undead brother. “The knighthood was his penance for his past sins. If not for his misdeeds, he would never have been sent to the Citadel, and the paladins would never have taken him under their wing. To him, the title he bore was a constant reminder of all those he had hurt.”

“That is surprising. I never knew Judarius to be sentimental.”

“He was. To a point.”

The short Warden fell silent, staring down at the ground and shuffling his feet. Finally he lifted his head and looked over at Ahaesarus once more.

“Do you know why he never created a knighthood here in Paradise?” Azariah said. “I asked him once. ‘The concept of a knight might be noble, but by definition it teaches a life of violence. I would never form a knighthood here, for I see no use in it. I do not see the need for this young race to ever learn about violence at all.’ Those were his exact words.”

Ahaesarus thought of the battle, of the violence consuming their new world.

“Do you think he felt that way at the end?” he asked softly. “He fought valiantly; he fought viciously. He seemed to think he was made for it.”

Azariah shrugged and gestured toward his brother. “He was, and he did, but you would have to ask him. And I think you might find it difficult to pry the answer from his lips.”

Azariah then turned away from Ahaesarus and began walking through the crowd of people, both living and dead. “We will be leaving on the morrow,” Ahaesarus called out after him. “Will you be joining us?”

“No.” Azariah stopped and turned, facing him again. “My place is here, among my students. As I have told you before, this world needs healers as much as it needs warriors, perhaps even more so. Our roles have shifted, Ahaesarus. My brother is dead. You are now the warrior, as he was. I. . I am now the priest, like you once were.”

With that, he turned and approached a throng of fifty youngsters huddling before the wall of the dead, focusing on two in particular: a tall boy and girl with sandy hair and flesh a shade darker than the others around them. If Ahaesarus remembered correctly, their names were Barclay and Sharin Noonan, siblings who had traveled with Ashhur when the god trekked from one corner of Paradise to the other, collecting his children and bringing them here to Mordeina. Both the youths’ cheeks glistened with tears as they stared at one of the standing dead men, most likely their father. Ahaesarus looked on as Azariah touched the dead man’s forehead, whispered a few words to the grieving youths, and then wrapped his wide arms around them. He guided them away from the swarm, heading for the holes in Mordeina’s walls.

Ahaesarus shook his head. “You were right, he is the sensitive one,” he spoke, looking at Judarius’s corpse. “And perhaps he is also the smartest of us all.” He looked up at Celestia’s tree, its branches pressing upward into the late winter sky, and followed Azariah and his students into the settlement, walking with a slight limp.

Unlike the exterior, inside the walls there was no time for sadness and disbelief. The last four days had been spent repairing what had been lost. With Karak having fled, Ashhur dismantled the bunker he had raised, using the stones to rebuild and expand on the murder row lining the road leading into the settlement. The usable lumber from shattered edifices was repurposed into new constructions. The numerous dead horses were hauled away, to be butchered and salted for the nearly starving populace.

Those four days also featured preparations for the march east, which was set to begin on this day at noon. The remaining horses were saddled, supply wagons built, weapons gathered. Discarded armor from Karak’s Army had been collected, the black painted over before being distributed among those who would depart. All supplies were amassed at the base of Manse DuTaureau’s hill, and the crowd was thick. Wives and mothers offered their husbands and sons teary goodbyes. Young King Benjamin was out as well, Ahaesarus was happy to see, with Howard Baedan steering him through the people, along with Isabel DuTaureau’s children and grandchildren. And halfway up the hill, Ashhur knelt in the sparse snow, holding court with a gaggle of youths. Ahaesarus felt his heart plummet at the sight. Ashhur was always at his benign best when speaking with children, his godly face beaming, the glow of his eyes bringing vibrancy to the landscape that didn’t exist even on the brightest of days. Yet none of that was in evidence at the moment. The deity appeared sidetracked, exhausted, even glum, as if he wanted to be somewhere else, and from the looks on the children’s faces, they noticed it.

Ahaesarus glanced up at the manse and thought he saw the outline of a redheaded waif in one of the windows. Isabel seemed to look right at him despite the distance. He shook his head and turned away.

The decision to pursue Karak had been met with bewilderment at first. In the aftermath of the bloodiest day in the history of Paradise, and with the shock of seeing the dead rise, not many knew how to react. Ashhur had preached, trying to convince his creations that what he wished for was righteous, but the response he received from his people were hesitant at best. It wasn’t until Patrick DuTaureau, his Turncloaks, and a collection of two hundred men and women who resided in the northwest corner of Mordeina voiced their enthusiastic support for the plan that the others joined in. Whereas Ashhur pleaded with their sense of justice and the need to survive, Patrick drew on a much more base desire-vengeance. The morning of that second day, he had stormed through the assembly, screaming at the top of his lungs, fire in his countenance. Many then joined the cause.

In the end, more than thirty thousand volunteered, men and women, the young, old, and infirm. So many offered their services that most had to be turned away. There simply weren’t enough armor and weapons to go around, and Ashhur was adamant that he wouldn’t send his children into battle unprepared.

A little too late for that, Ahaesarus thought at the time, then felt guilty immediately after.

Now he scanned the crowd, looking for Patrick, but could see only the elder leader of the Turncloaks guiding his young cohorts in saddling the last of the horses. Finally, he spotted the malformed redheaded man, riding from the front gate, that giant sword of his resting on his lap. The look on his face was intense, his posture strangely rigid. A young girl ran up to the side of his horse and pulled on the leg of his mailed breeches, but he shoved her hand away. Ahaesarus frowned at the sight. He had always known Patrick to be a carefree sort, crass yet loving, and even insightful at times. To see him act this way made him feel the same as when he saw Ashhur teaching the children-distraught.

The misshapen man rode up to him. “Master Warden,” Patrick said, no humor in his tone.

“Patrick.”

“It’s time.”

Ahaesarus nodded. Neither said another word.

Ashhur rose to his feet and lifted a giant horn to his lips. His golden hair flowed around him like a mane of silk. When he blew into the instrument, the trumpeting rang throughout the walled settlement with the force of an erupting volcano. All work ceased, all eyes turned to their god.

“Citizens of Paradise, my precious children, the time to forge your own destiny is now.”

The fighting men and women formed haphazard ranks. Horses were tethered to the wagons and whips cracked. Ashhur gave the word, and mismatched armor clanked and spears thudded against the ground as the new army of eight thousand surged forward. They were a flood of flesh and steel, flowing toward the newly reconstructed front gate, too disorganized to form the lines necessary to pass through without creating a logjam. One hundred seventy-five of the remaining one hundred eighty-three Wardens marched at their lead, trying to get them under control.

Ahaesarus lingered by Ashhur’s side in front of the inner wall, watching the force approach. Patrick and the Turncloaks were there as well, and the Master Warden studied them. The soldiers who had turned against Karak didn’t seem as somber or frightened as the rest, and they gazed up at Ashhur with utmost respect. Even Patrick seemed to join in, his sullen mood interrupted when one of the youngest of the Turncloaks leaned over and whispered in his ear. Patrick threw his head back and laughed. “A tit?” he said through his guffaws. “He thought it was a tit? Ha!”

Then came the rumbling, and all laughter ceased. The ground shook, causing the advancing army to stop and hold their arms out to keep their balance. Ashhur took a step forward, his image wavering in Ahaesarus’s vision. The god gazed skyward, and the quaking of the earth ceased. The people of Mordeina shuffled about nervously, murmuring to each other. Something odd was happening, they could feel it in the air. Ahaesarus hurried to the front of the army, to where Ashhur marched, seemingly oblivious to the now fearful brightness of the sun.

“My Lord,” the Warden said, putting a hand on Ashhur’s forearm. Before his god could respond, Ahaesarus heard the voice. It was soft, feminine, and seemed to float on the wind.

My love. . my love, you must stop this folly.

Ahaesarus immediately understood who spoke. It seemed all the land stood still, and when he looked about, it was truer than he thought possible. The horses were frozen, the people unmoving. Though the Warden felt wind blowing from all directions, not a strand of hair blew, nor a single thread of clothing. Even the sparse clouds in the sky remained in place. Only he and Ashhur seemed unaffected, and standing there in the sudden stillness chilled Ahaesarus to the bone.

Ashhur inclined his head and closed his hands into fists. “I cannot, my love.”

Celestia’s voice came again. Allow your brother to return to his home. Do not pursue.

“We must,” said Ashhur, lifting his gaze to the heavens. “I have no choice.”

There is always a choice. My world weeps, and I weep with it. Seek peace, not more death.

When Ashhur spoke next, it was with rage that matched his fury at the sight of his brother storming through the walls of Mordeina.

“You come to me with a plea for peace? I, who never wished for this war? I, who beseeched my brother until the final moment to turn back? I have done nothing but defend the lives of my creations! If you wish for this to end, my love, go to him! Demand Karak leave this land and never return. Do it, and see how he answers!”

When the god’s mouth snapped shut, the eerie silence stretched on and on. Ahaesarus was afraid, too afraid to voice his fear, and could only stand by his god and wait for the goddess to reply.

Is that your wish? Walk with care, my love. I spared you once, but not again. My world will not crumble as yours did. You, and the people you have created, are on your own.

“We have always been on our own,” said Ashhur. “You left us to starve and die, and for what reason? Balance? Come to me! Come look me in the eye and tell me I am no different from my brother. Tell me we need one another, and the world must have us for your precious balance. My heart yearns to hear just how many lies your lips can spill before your own world turns against you.”

Ahaesarus was stunned by the god’s anger. He’d always thought these two so close, so dear to one another, integral in forging Dezrel into the land it now was. But this. . this was frightening. When next Ahaesarus heard the goddess speak, there was a fire in her voice.

I offered you solace. I offered you a chance for redemption, to atone for your mistakes. You spoke of a new world, and tempted me with the spectacle of creation. I have witnessed many wondrous things, but the terrors have started to overwhelm the glory. These lands you squabble over are mine, not yours, yet they run with blood.

“Lands given to us,” challenged Ashhur. “And it is our blood that spills.”

And more still will be shed. My eyes are upon you. Do not forget it.

The ground shook, and with a sudden rush of air Ahaesarus realized they were once more within the normal grip of time. People looked about; shrieks filled the air, and to Ahaesarus it sounded eerily similar to five days before, when Karak overtook Mordeina’s walls. An enormously loud series of cracks came next, followed by what sounded like a massive landslide. Ahaesarus rushed forward, trying to calm the panicked horde of people, but he lost his footing when the land beneath him shifted. It felt like the whole world was crumbling. He imagined giant fissures opening up and swallowing Ashhur and all he’d created.

“The tree!” someone shouted, and soon a veritable chorus joined in. Fingers pointed toward the wall. “The tree is falling, the tree!”

Ahaesarus winced as he stood, his bad leg throbbing, and looked toward Celestia’s tree. The giant branches swayed and broke loose, sending people screaming for cover. Its trunk developed a sickly gray color and caved in on itself. Great puffs of ash rose each time another portion fell. The sound of the chunks plummeting to the ground was like the heavens ripping open.

The tree continued to collapse, until it finally caught fire and broke apart. The branches bounced against the wall as they descended, leaving deep gouges in the stone and exploding into billowing clouds of ash. The fire in its center gave forth one final bright flash and then darkened. In a matter of moments, all that remained of the colossal tree was a lingering haze of dust and smoke.

Although most backed away, Ahaesarus approached the gap in the wall that the tree had blocked. He could see the undead out there, clear as day, unmoving as they stared east.

“Damn,” he heard Patrick say. “Well, at least it’ll be easier to march all these people out now.”

Glancing over, Ahaesarus saw that Patrick wasn’t smiling. He then turned to his god, who shook his head while he stared at the gap. He looked tired and annoyed, and the golden glow of his eyes was faded.

“What do we do now?” the Master Warden asked.

“I must fix the breach,” the god replied. “I will not leave those who remain behind unprotected.”

“Are you strong enough?” Patrick asked.

“I have to be.”

“Yes, but what then?” asked Ahaesarus. “After the wall is fixed? Karak has enough of a head start as it is.”

“This changes nothing,” said Ashhur. The god gazed through the fissure, staring at the red glow that lit the horizon. “We must simply ride faster.”