Blood Of Gods

CHAPTER 47

Eldrich Vaelor, the puppet king of Veldaren, stood atop the roof of the tallest public dwelling in the city, gray eyes staring across the narrow alleyways toward the Castle of the Lion. Moira followed his gaze. It was bedlam down there, thousands of combatants, nearly all of Veldaren and Ashhur’s entire armies, mashed into a tiny space. Even as far away as they were, it sounded as if the war were raging right below them.

Moira moved to the edge of the roof, squinting. Her blood was pumping in anticipation, and despite her injuries, which were not yet fully healed, she wanted to dive in down there, where she was most needed. And she knew she would get that opportunity. Though the king had claimed his rebellion was only traversing the city to observe the clash between the brother gods, she knew that the people’s need to make a difference would override his hesitation. Eldrich might not be the same man she had known as a child, a spoiled braggart afraid of his own shadow, but he wasn’t the strength behind the rebellion.

No, that strength was drawn from the one Moira had come here to save. Laurel Lawrence, that brilliant, beautiful, and fearless young thing, was the true power behind the forgotten throne.

As if on cue, the woman stepped toward the ledge beside Moira. Laurel was dressed in a pair of loose-fitting breeches covered by a mannish frock, but there was no denying her beauty or the potency of her will. Moira was intensely attracted to her, and even awed by her. From what Moira had learned, this woman had ventured out each day into a city that wanted her dead, determined not to stop until she had saved all the people she could. This was not a woman who would allow her king to stand idly by.

Laurel turned her haunting hazel eyes to King Eldrich. “We must fight.”

Behind them, those from the rebellion who had gathered on the roof cheered.

Eldrich furrowed his brow. “We will lose.”

“We may,” said Gull, running a whetstone along his saber.

“Either way, it will be exciting,” added Tabar.

The king frowned at these two men he barely knew, before turning around and facing the fifty or so gathered on the rooftop. The rest of the rebellion congregated on the empty streets below.

“Do you all wish to join the fight?” he asked, voice raised.

A raucous shout of approval answered him.

“Even if you fight for yet another god?” the puppet king asked. “Karak or Ashhur, it matters not. Whichever wins, we will still be in chains, only of a different kind.”

“We don’t fight for any gods,” said Laurel proudly. “We’ll fight for ourselves.”

“Besides,” scowled Danco, “Ashhur was swallowed by a wave of soldiers. For all we know, he’s gone for good.”

That statement drew another riotous cheer, even louder than the first. Moira lifted her sword above her head and joined them, grinning.

Eldrich appeared glum but seemed to gather himself as he shushed the crowd. “And so the choice has been made,” he said. “Any who wish to join the battle can do so of their own free will, but we will force none. It will be the people’s choice whether they sprint to their deaths.” Moira was surprised by the strength behind his voice, but that still didn’t stop her from scoffing at the man giving everyone permission to do as they chose. The man was a puppet king. He held no real power.

Another cheer began.

Laurel hushed them. “Listen, all of you. We’re behind the castle, so let’s keep it that way. When those who want this fight are collected, we’ll circle around the wall to the west, since our view of what is happening on the other side is blocked. Karak hasn’t made himself known yet, but he still might be nearby. Try to stay out of sight until you’re within fighting range. We don’t want anyone becoming lion meat.” She gave King Eldrich a smirk. “Then, my Liege, you will have the straight-on assault you wanted.”

Moira laughed, this time not bothering to hide her amusement.

“Now go, everyone,” said Laurel, “and if I never see you again, know that you were well met.”

Those on the roof began hopping down the stairwell, heading for street level. Laurel gave Pulo Jenatt, the curly-haired former captain of the Guard, a hug before he limped after the others. Moira noted the look of jealousy on King Eldrich’s face, before going to join her Movers.

“Moira, wait,” said Laurel, stilling her.

Moira turned to see Laurel arguing with the young girl with the dark, wavy hair and deep blue eyes, who was constantly at Laurel’s side. Moira walked up to them, listening to the songs of battle the people heading down the stairs sang and longing to be with them.

“What?” she asked.

Laurel’s stare was intense. “Moira, how hurt are you?”

“A bit.” She rolled her shoulders. “Still smarting, but once the blood starts flowing, it should fade away.”

“Good.” Laurel gestured to her young companion. “Lyana is adamant that she be allowed to fight. She is a girl of age now, eighteen and her own woman. However, I must ask. . can you protect her?”

“I can do my best, I suppose.”

“That’s all I can ask.” Laurel then looked deep into Lyana’s eyes. “You stay safe. Stick by Moira’s side like sap. I will see you again, do you understand? You are important, one of only two members of the First Families remaining in this horrid city. Your survival will serve as an example to the rest.”

“I’ll try, Laurel.”

“You best.”

Moira watched the conversation, the sounds of battle melting away as she gaped. She nearly slapped herself upside the head. That was why the girl looked familiar. Lyana. Lyana Mori. Rachida’s niece and last surviving family member. Though Moira hadn’t seen the girl since she was in the cradle, the resemblance to the house matriarch couldn’t be denied.

“No,” Moira said, too harshly. “She isn’t coming.”

Laurel and Lyana snapped their heads toward her.

“Why not?” asked Lyana.

“Because of who you are. Because of what you mean. If your Aunt Rachida finds out you died out there, she’d never forgive me for allowing it. I’m sorry, but absolutely not.”

With that, Moira dashed toward the stairwell, ignoring Lyana’s angry shouts. She descended the stairs three at a time, hoping that the girl was obedient enough to heed her warning and stay far, far away.

For though it was true she’d probably die in the next few minutes, she had to hedge her bets just in case. Lyana would make a splendid present for Rachida should they ever be reunited.

Her Movers awaited her just outside the tall building, and upon her arrival, they began sprinting without a word. From what Moira could tell, more than half of the eight hundred men and women fit to fight had decided to join them on the dash to their deaths. The Palace Guard and Watchmen wore their uniforms, but the commoners were dressed mostly in lighter armor, if they had any armor at all. Those that didn’t had strapped scraps of wood to their arms and wedged heavily stuffed pillows beneath their smallclothes for protection.

As a group they sprinted down the alleyways, crossing the span between them and the raging battle in mere minutes. The roar of it grew more and more deafening with every step Moira took. Then came the fear and excitement, and-just as she’d told Laurel-the pain from her wounds melted away behind a wall of electric anticipation.

They reached the rear wall of the castle, the three towers rising high above them, and ran at a measured pace along it. The fighting had spilled over to the side, as soldiers in sloppily painted white armor fought those in silver and black. Ashhur even had a few Wardens on his side, the tall beings more than holding their own against the armored hordes. The Judges were also in the mix, working their way through the melee, ripping men apart. Moira paused, looking toward the neighboring rooftops. There were elves up there; she could see them now, taking aim and launching arrows into the hordes.

“Movers, to me,” she said.

Gull, Rodin, Tabar, and Danco sidled up to her, waiting intently for their instructions. She also called over twenty others.

“Forget the fight on the ground,” she said. “See those buildings over there? Get on the roofs and kill those elves. They are likely the ones who are best with a sword, so I want our best with a sword to face them. I’m sure there are more on the other side of the square, but the less death coming down on us from above, the better. We have enough to deal with when there are Judges and soldiers and Sisters about.”

Her Movers nodded sharply, pride in their eyes, and took off without a word, leading the twenty others. “I hope to see you again,” she whispered. Moira then took a deep breath and faced forward. Pulo Jenatt was peeking around the wall. He held up three fingers and counted down. When his fist closed, mayhem sparked.

Moira ran screaming into the fray, holding both her swords out to her sides. She used one of her own men as a launching point, kicking off his back and rising into the air. As she descended she spun, hacking at a pair of soldiers’ throats. One she killed, severing his windpipe easily; the second she sliced through the cheek instead, causing his flesh to dangle, exposing his teeth. The soldier fell to the ground, clawing at his face.

She landed amid the turmoil, sprinting into motion once more. She stabbed and slashed, bounding off shoulders and helms, using her lithe frame and agility to keep from dying. Arrows flew all around her, making her spin to the side or arch her back to keep from being struck. Always she eyed the two lions, which were at least two hundred feet away, sending bodies flying into the air. It was then, as she stabbed another soldier in the back of the neck and once more leapt into the air, that she noticed something strange. There were a great many people who weren’t engaging in the battle. They simply stood there in the middle of everything, swaying, eyes blank. Some looked to have taken grave injuries, many missing limbs or with gaping wounds on their bodies that somehow did not leak blood. The momentary confusion caused Moira to falter. She missed her mark, roughly colliding with a soldier’s back and then landing in the midst of countless tramping feet.

At least the arrows won’t reach me here.

She stayed crouched, inching along the ground and hamstringing as many men as she could. A queer sort of panic filled her when one of the men whose ankle she severed fell to the ground, only to have his face stomped by oblivious feet. Though the man’s armor was that of Karak’s Army, there were splotches of white paint covering the breastplate. Moira scooted to the side, avoiding another soldier’s blade, and noticed that almost all of Ashhur’s followers were simply wearing the standard of the lion, only painted over. With the crude paint chipping away during the battle, it would be nearly impossible to tell one side from the other.

The concern fled her when she heard a cry rise above the clamor. It was the scream of a tortured soul, of pain beyond physical, and she recognized the voice. She stood, grabbed a soldier from behind, hoped it was one of Karak’s, and slit his throat. Using his body as a shield, she spun around, looking for her opening. When she found it, a three-foot space of empty, bloody cobbles, she tossed the man’s corpse at the skirmishing men and ran in the opposite direction, putting as much force as she could behind her next jump, arrows be damned.

Batting away blows on either side, Moira hustled toward the sound. Luckily, the arrows were no longer flying on this side of the square, which meant her Movers had done their job. She had to keep one eye ahead and one eye on the castle wall, but then she saw him-Patrick DuTaureau, the father of Moira and Rachida’s child, sprinting along the wall. His expression was one of pure agony, pure hatred; in that moment, he actually looked like the monster many had assumed him to be. She had fought by his side in Haven, and he’d never looked like that. She wondered what had transformed him so.

Then her eyes traced upward, and she wondered no more.

“Fuck no,” she muttered.

Hanging on the wall amid a long row of corpses was one that stuck out from the rest-a small, withered thing with red, curly hair. And beside her, his chestnut locks like reeds blowing in the wind, was Crian. Her brother, the only one in her whole family who had never judged her for her dismissal of the family code, hadn’t made it to Paradise after all.

“No!” she screamed.

A woman possessed, she hacked and slashed blindly, not caring in the slightest which side she killed. The frenzied nature of her assault created a wide gap in the packed group of combatants. When finally she dove out of the fray, she twirled around, whirling both swords in her hands, and split the faces of two soldiers who were brave enough to challenge her. When they fell, she followed the sound of Patrick’s ranting. She found him battling with a giant elf who wielded a pair of black swords. Patrick shouted obscenities each time he dove into a hysterical attack, only to be beaten back by a tumult of parries and jabs. The elf had split the chainmail on Patrick’s thigh and damaged his right vambrace so much it dangled off the hunchbacked man’s massive arm. His skill was too great; and Patrick, too angry. He was swinging wildly, carelessly. Before long he would open himself up and receive a sword in the face for his troubles.

Moira sprinted toward the clash, ducking out of the way of charging soldiers, leaping over a couple others. She reached Patrick’s backside just as the large elf launched into a flurry of cleaves and slashes. Leaping upward, she used Patrick as a steppingstone, kicking off him to continue her forward assault. Flying frontward, she twisted to give her slashes even greater power as she came crashing down. The elf edged away in time so that only the tips of her blades caught his flesh, scoring both his cheeks at once. Moira landed on both feet in a low crouch, her shortswords held one over the other in a defensive stance. Behind her, Patrick staggered ahead, almost falling on his face.

“What the FUCK!” he screamed.

“Sorry,” Moira called out, chancing to glance over her shoulder.

Patrick’s eyes widened as he huffed. “Moira?”

“It’s me,” she said. “Look out!”

Patrick tilted to the side, and a soldier’s blade passed through the air where he’d been. The hunchback planted a meaty fist in the soldier’s face, breaking his nose before gutting him with that massive sword of his. When he shoved the dying man away, he looked back at Moira. His face whitened.

Moira whirled back around and saw that another five elves had joined the one in black, who looked wild with rage, the dual scars, like red teardrops, tracing down his cheeks. Moira shifted position, standing sideways with her front leg bent and the rear leg straightened, one of her shortswords angled above her head while the other one was held out straight. A moment later Patrick was by her side, holding his blade by his waist with both hands.

“Just like old times?” he asked out the corner of his mouth.

“Just like old times,” Moira echoed. “Only channel your anger. Don’t be stupid.”

“Yes, mistress,” the deformed redhead said.

The elves rushed them, and Patrick sprang forward, this time swinging with measured strikes. Moira used his back as a pole, spinning from one side of him to the other, parrying jabs, and knocking aside slashes. One of the elves fell, then another, devastated by Patrick’s sword. During one of Moira’s revolutions, the elf in black was there to greet her, planting a boot squarely in her chest. The wounds the Judges had given her flared to life. She shrieked and twisted back to the other side, but there was no relief there. Another of the elves lashed out with his khandar, a blow Moira had no choice but to block. Had she tried to duck beneath it, the blade would have dug into Patrick’s neck. A spike of pain coursed through her upper body when their swords met.

A hand wrapped around her, and Patrick scooped her up while ramming his shoulder into the elf in black. Patrick screamed, that shoulder obviously wounded and soaked in blood, but he pumped his legs nonetheless. He used his strong arm to toss Moira into the air. She did a pirouette, driving her foot into the square-faced elf’s nose. He barked and stumbled away, blood gushing from his nostrils.

Patrick faced the massive elf while Moira landed and scampered back around him. They stood back to back, staring at the enemies that surrounded them.

“Sorry our reunion ended so quickly,” said a winded Patrick.

“It’s not over yet,” answered Moira.

“No? Too bad. I’m getting tired of this.”

“You can rest when you’re dead.”

“Ashhur help me, that’s sort of the point.”

The elves charged from all sides, holding their khandars like spears. Moira tensed for impact, but then the elves were thrown off balance by a mighty gust of wind. A round of explosions came next, as if people themselves were suddenly bursting all at once. Blood and viscera flew into the air in geysers all around, so thick that it fell like rain, coating everything.

“What the fuck was that?” shouted Moira.

“The undead,” said Patrick hesitantly, obviously confused. “They. . exploded.”

A single word then rumbled over the battlefield, as potent as a million thunder strikes happening all at once.

“ENOUGH!”

It seemed for a moment as if the battle had ceased. In the middle of the chaos rose Ashhur, his silver armor layered with blood. He took a massive step, scattering the soldiers, Sisters, and Wardens before him. Never before had Moira seen a god look so angry, not even Karak. One of his hands was gathered into a fist, and the other held the limp form of one of the massive Judges-Lilah, the female. With a mighty swing of his arm, the deity tossed the giant lioness through the air, where she crashed down into another group of combatants. Moira heard a feline whimper. The thing wasn’t dead.

Neither was the male. Kayne bounded through the throng, roaring, trampling soldiers beneath his claws. Ashhur slammed his palms together just as the lion hurdled toward him. The god’s fingers knotted together, and he clobbered the male upside the head, snapping Kayne’s head to the side and sending him soaring as well.

“KARAK, SHOW YOURSELF!” the deity roared.

“You will only face the true god of the land if you prove yourself worthy!” said another voice, softer but no less threatening, from behind her. She turned just as the soldiers guarding the portcullis parted, revealing a man she recognized standing there, his eyes glowing red, his cloak fluttering even though there was no breeze.

“Jacob, stand aside,” Ashhur said coldly. “You do not frighten me.”

Jacob Eveningstar? thought Moira. Here in Veldaren?

Beside her, Patrick growled.

“I am Velixar,” the cloaked man said, laughter playing on his lips. “And honestly, my Lord, I should frighten you. Even the gods trembled before the beast.”

The man who had once been Jacob slammed his hands together. A massive arc of black light shot forth, swallowing all in its path. Moira was caught in the wave and sent careening through the air along with at least two hundred others, Patrick included. They all landed in a heap fifty feet away, clearing a path between the god and the man who challenged him.

Moira groaned and shoved at the men piled atop her, trying to get loose. Nearby she heard Patrick cursing. Armor creaked, dying men moaned out their last breaths. But the one sound Moira didn’t hear was the clash of steel on steel.

She finally wedged herself free from the tangled mass of humanity. Patrick was nearby, his powerful arms quivering as he tried to pick himself up off the ground. She ran to him, urged him to stand. The fighting around her began anew as Moira and Patrick fled to the shelter of the half-demolished stables nearby. While the others waged war, their attention was fixed on Ashhur and the First Man.

Ashhur held out his hand, and a radiant sword of pure light appeared in his grip.

“This ends now,” the god said.

Moira couldn’t turn away.