Blood Of Gods

CHAPTER 51

I banish you, never to walk my land again. If you would war forever, then let it rage among your creations. Let it be your curse, one they will bear until the breaking of days.

Patrick blinked, his vision finally coming back after that sudden flash of brilliant light. The billowing clouds overhead parted, allowing sunlight to once more shine down on the blood-covered square. The ruins of the castle were now devoid of conflict. All it had taken was a single lightning strike, and Ashhur and Karak were gone. Jacob Eveningstar seemed to have vanished as well. In their place were the words of the goddess, echoing through Patrick’s mind as he stood gawking at the scene.

Patrick wiped blood from his forehead. The rush of conflict had all but left him, quivering in his nerve endings like a forgotten memory. He looked to Moira, who appeared just as horrified as he, and snaked his hand into hers. He slid Winterbone into its scabbard. Together they exited the confines of the wrecked stable, wandering out amid the ruin.

“Did you hear it?” Patrick asked. “Celestia’s voice?”

Moira looked over at him and nodded. “I did.” She then gestured to the packed, bloody square. “They all did.”

The people of both Paradise and Neldar shuffled about, their expressions blank. There was sobbing to be heard, and moans, and a few voices whispering urgently, but other than that there was silence. He sought out familiar faces, but it was difficult to distinguish one man from another when their faces were all painted red with blood. The whole time, Moira prattled on about finding Rachida, her voice strained, seemingly on the verge of tears. Patrick’s heart went out to her. Then, someone shouted his name, and he halted in his tracks. Moira stopped as well, turning toward the sound with him.

From out of the stilled swarm marched a dignified soldier Patrick instantly recognized, flanked by four others. The tears that flowed from Preston’s eyes washed the blood from his cheeks. There was an unmoving form draped across his arms, its limbs and neck flaccid. Big and Little Flick, marching behind him, each held a body as well, with Ryann and Joffrey beside them.

Patrick held his ground as they approached. The remaining Turncloaks laid the bodies of their dead onto the bloodied cobbles before him. Patrick stared into the older man’s steely gray eyes as they twitched. There was such deep sorrow there, it broke Patrick’s heart.

He looked down at the three bodies, each caked with blood. Young men all, brave men all. Two were Preston’s sons, Edward and Ragnar. The third was Tristan Valeson. Tristan’s neck was a gory mess of pulverized meat. His eyes were open, growing cloudy in death, staring unblinking at the sky. Patrick knelt down, clutched the young soldier’s fingers with one hand, and closed his eyelids with the other. His heart, already broken from Celestia’s harrowing words, shattered some more.

“I’m sorry, Patrick,” he heard Moira say.

“You will be missed,” he whispered. He leaned over, gave Tristan a kiss on the forehead, and then did the same with Edward and Ragnar.

“They died good deaths,” said Preston. His voice cracked when he said it.

“Was there ever such a thing?” Patrick answered softly.

There were people shuffling around now. Patrick turned away from the corpses of his friends and looked toward the empty ruins of the castle. Kneeling in front of it was a man in heavy plate armor. His head was thrown back toward the heavens. “Release him at once, you bitch!” the man shouted in his anguished voice. “Karak, Karak, fight her! You cannot lose!”

Another soldier walked up to the kneeling man and tried to pull him away. The man turned suddenly, snatching the soldier by the front of his breastplate, and Patrick saw his face. It was the one who guarded Jacob Eveningstar, the soldier with the great horned helm, the marred face, and the dead, milky eye. The man shoved the soldier away, spouting obscenities. His shoulders hitched, and the sound of his sobs mixed with the others. Patrick rolled his neck and rose painfully to his feet. He looked to Moira, who wasn’t paying attention to him. Her eyes were focused on some point in the distance, widened in what could either have been shock or delight.

“I can’t believe it,” she said. The lithe woman took a few steps forward, as if in a dream, before bursting into an all-out sprint. She careened through the maze of corpses and dazed people until she ran headlong into four men who limped through the crowd. “Rodin!” Patrick heard her say as she threw her arms around a bald and strapping, blood-soaked man.

Something else caught Patrick’s eye right then. There were elves winding through the massacre, their neutral-toned clothes torn and spotted with gore. There were quite a few of them, coming from every direction. Someone shouted in the elves’ native tongue, breaking the eerie almost silence. Patrick whirled around, only to see the square-faced elf he and Moira had battled, standing with both his black swords in hand.

The elf was calling his brethren to him.

Patrick sidestepped around the three bodies at his feet, sidling up to Preston. The old soldier had gathered his wits; the only signs of his sorrow were the clean trails that snaked down his bloodied cheeks.

“Be wary,” Patrick said out of the corner of his mouth, tilting his head in the elf’s direction.

Preston understood. His hand fell to the handle of his sheathed sword. The other Turncloaks followed his lead.

The elves continued to gather a few feet from where the anguished soldier of Karak wailed. Patrick did a quick count, coming up with forty-three. The colossal elf in black gathered the others around, shouting in their queer tongue. When that was finished, the elves sheathed their swords and slung their bows over their backs. They began to cross the blood-splattered square, only to stop a moment later. It appeared as if each of their heads looked up to the sky at once.

A whisper on the wind reached Patrick’s ears, nearly undecipherable. Though he couldn’t make out the words, it was obviously the goddess speaking once more, her voice soft and snipped and threatening.

The elves fell to their knees. Their eyes bulged, and their heads were thrown back. Their mouths opened as if to scream, but no sound came out. Patrick inched forward, Preston and the surviving Turncloaks following. Patrick couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The elves’ flesh bubbled and warped, the color darkening to a slate gray. Their eyes retreated into their sockets, and their brows distended. Each of them lurched forward, gagging on an unseen blockage, their lips pulling back, their incisors growing slightly larger. They looked dangerous, feral. Then they all collapsed and writhed there for a moment, until they all fell still.

“What in the name of the unholy?” whispered Preston.

The scene had drawn a crowd around Patrick, blocking his vision and making him wary of the wall of human flesh that closed him in. He might not have been stunted, but with his hunched back and warped spine, he was shorter than most, and he had to hop up to see what was happening. He heard the crowd gasp before it started to back away. Frustrated, he and his remaining Turncloaks elbowed their way through the mass of bodies, seeking the front.

When they reached open air, they saw each of the elves standing and staring at their hands. They no longer looked like elves. Instead of looking noble, they seemed savage, their skin covered with pocks and scars. The large one with the black armor saw Patrick and jolted his head forward, snapping at him. Patrick jumped backward and yelped, his hand instinctively reaching for Winterbone.

The twisted elf’s eyes lost their focus. His head lifted, seemingly glaring at each and every face that stared back at him. Behind him, his brethren did the same. They grunted and hissed. A few of them tried to form words, but their tongues tangled in their mouths.

Then, suddenly, the large one’s head swung around. He gawked stupidly toward the demolished castle, until those deep-set eyes narrowed. A primordial scream left his mouth, and the former elf took off running, drawing those two black swords from his back. His brethren gaped at each other stupidly before they started to run as well.

They were heading for the wailing man, the one with the dead, milky eye.

Patrick didn’t know why he felt inclined to do what he did next. “No!” he shouted, and then took off, grabbing hold of Preston’s sleeve on the way by, tugging the old soldier along. Patrick ran as fast as his uneven legs could carry him, heading diagonally toward the kneeling man. Somehow he kept pace with the sprinting feral elf. He reached back and tugged Winterbone loose, his breath coming in short, painful rasps.

The kneeling man’s head whirled around just as the feral elf drew close to him. The man fell back on his hands, groping on the ground beside him for something, but he wasn’t quick enough. A pair of black, glinting blades cut through the air.

Patrick dove forward and lunged with Winterbone. The feral elf’s swords crashed into his with a hollow clang. The elf’s strength was immense, but somehow, even though pain spiked into his back, Patrick’s powerful arms didn’t yield an inch. Their blades remained locked, just a whisper away from the kneeling man’s face.

The man’s good eye looked from Patrick to the elf and then back again. Patrick took a deep breath and brought his arms up with as much force as he could. The large elf was knocked backward, giving Jacob Eveningstar’s protector a chance to roll out of harm’s way. The other deformed elves closed in from behind, brandishing their own weapons and squealing like rabid animals. Patrick stepped back and hunkered down, preparing to be rammed, preparing to die.

Then the shouting began. Preston barked orders, inspiring those who’d been gawking to snap into action. A large crowd of humans collided with the feral elves, battering them with swords and axes, shoving them over the ruins of the castle wall. Patrick saw two of the odd wrapped women among the fray, their wrappings soaked with blood, slashing at the new enemy in their midst as if they could erase all the knowledge that their god was gone by simply destroying these primitive beasts. It was a vicious spectacle, and his watching of it almost ended him.

So focused was he on the brutality of his fellow humans that he almost didn’t see the large elf come at him from the side. At the last moment he bent backward, and two black swords sliced across the space he’d once occupied. The perverse elf roared at him and threw a fist, catching him full in the face. His nose snapped to the side, blood pouring from his nostrils. Patrick staggered, having to jab Winterbone against the cobbles to keep from falling.

The beastly thing was on him again a second later, hacking and slashing with wild abandon. It fought with no skill, only pure rage, beating Patrick back. Another three of its mates, apparently having escaped death at the hands of the riotous mob, joined the large elf’s side. All four of them bore down on Patrick. With his eyes watering from his broken nose and his limbs gone weary, it was all Patrick could do to hold Winterbone up. Blades scraped his armor and pierced his flesh.

One of the feral elves to his left then howled as the tip of a colossal sword exited his chest. The thing’s eyes bulged from his sockets and he looked down at the protruding blade as if in disbelief. In a single, brutal motion, the sword then flashed up, tearing the dark elf up through the bottom of his neck. The dead elf was knocked to the side. In its place stood the man who’d been kneeling, his horned helm back atop his head, his ample sword held firmly in both hands. The man’s good eye sparkled through his visor, and he nodded curtly before hurtling himself toward two of the elves, his sword strikes measured and deadly.

The larger of the feral elves, the one in the black armor, remained fixated on Patrick. Sparks were flying in all directions as his two swords met Winterbone again and again. The elf was much larger than him, and despite his feat of strength earlier, he knew he couldn’t keep up this fight for long. The elf finally threw him off balance, thrusting with one sword, a move that Patrick lifted Winterbone to counter. The other sword then slipped beneath his raised hands. The blade clanged off the bottom of Patrick’s breastplate and plunged easily into his belly. Patrick lurched forward as pain overwhelmed him. The feral elf slammed his forehead into Patrick’s. His head snapped back and he collapsed. The blade slid out of him as he fell. Patrick felt blood gush from the wound, drenching his crotch and thighs.

The feral thing hovered over him, cackling in an odd, callous way. The sun glimmered over his black scale armor as he held both swords out to his sides, the blades dripping with Patrick’s blood. The elf’s muscles tensed as he prepared to strike. Patrick showed the beast his neck, hoping it would be quick. The twisted elf then paused for some reason, his head tilting to the side. It didn’t stop tilting until the head came loose from the neck and tumbled over his shoulder. The body fell, collapsing next to Patrick on the gore-stained cobbles with a sickening splat. The elf’s swords clattered away.

Patrick looked up at the gigantic image of a god looming above him, a halo of light shimmering around its body. The figure then leaned on a sword and crouched down beside Patrick, his silky golden hair just as soaked with blood as everything else in this godsforsaken place. Patrick looked into those intense blue eyes and laughed, causing a coughing fit to overtake him. That was no god.

“Ahaesarus,” he said between painful chuckles. “You made it.”

“Barely,” the Master Warden said.

“Couldn’t you see he was going to kill me? I would think you’d have at least given me that before you cut off his head.”

Ahaesarus patted him on the shoulder. “Sorry. Today was not your day to die, Patrick. After what just happened, you are needed.”

“Too bad I’m gutted.”

The Warden laid down his sword and rubbed his hands together. “Let us see what we can do about that.”

Another form then appeared above him, blocking the sun. Patrick raised his eyes and saw the man with one eye. His sword was sheathed, the horned helm wedged beneath his arm. The man gazed down at him, his lips pursed.

“You saved my life,” he said coldly. “For that I am thankful.”

Patrick went to reply, only the man turned away before he could say anything. He picked up the twisted elf’s two black swords and headed toward a small gathering of soldiers without another word.

“Charming fellow,” Patrick said.

“He is one of Karak’s most faithful,” said Ahaesarus, watching the man as he and his mates wandered away. “It drips off him.”

“Good for him,” Patrick said. His vision began to get blurry. “But say, Ahaesarus, did you come to save me or let me slowly die?”

The Master Warden chuckled and placed his hands on Patrick’s midsection. “To tell you the truth, I am not certain this will work,” he said, his eyes peering at the spot where the gods had warred.

“Well try, anyway, or let me go.”

Ahaesarus nodded and began to whisper words of prayer. His hands glowed with holy light. Patrick felt the warmth and comfort of Ashhur’s healing magics course through him and leaned his head back on the soaked cobbles. He began to grow tired, but before he closed his eyes, he looked one last time at the place where Ashhur and Karak had fought, where the blood of gods had been spilled before a bolt of lightning swallowed them both, along with Jacob Eveningstar, the child of two gods.

“Ashhur, where did you go?” he asked aloud before he lost consciousness.