Blood Of Gods

CHAPTER 6

His body was covered with cuts and bruises from the beatings he’d been given, his wrists and ankles chafed and bloody from the irons that bound him, and yet for Ceredon Sinistel, dismay was the worst of his pains.

The prince of the Quellan elves had been tethered to the back of a supply wagon and marched endlessly south through Ashhur’s Paradise, made subservient to all present. Quellan, Dezren, or human-it didn’t matter; all who happened upon him abused him, striking him with reeds and whips, spitting in his face, shattering a few of his teeth, and some even going so far as to run their blades across his flesh, opening small wounds that would weep and sting as sweat rolled over them. He was theirs to torture, yet he didn’t complain, even as he lay there in the sand beneath the light of the moon, parched and unable to sleep. His hatred would be sated in time, as would revenge for the murder of his father; the lord and lady of Dezerea; and Tantric, the rebel leader. “Become like the mountain I love so dearly,” his goddess Celestia had whispered to him. Mountains did not weep. They didn’t scream and kick. They waited. They watched. They endured.

Ceredon had lost count of how many days it’d been since they left Dezerea, but it had to be at least twenty. Their march had started out quickly, the force of a hundred human soldiers, four hundred Quellan Ekreissar, and another three hundred conscripted Dezren moving across the forests and rolling hills of eastern Paradise, passing by many abandoned or decimated townships, until they reached the Gods’ Road. The demarcation line was the husk of a lone, gigantic cypress tree that loomed on the south side of the dusty road, its trunk scarred, its leaves burned; an omen of the land they would soon cross. After they passed through miles and miles of scorched landscape, tall prairie grasses rose up to meet them, and the procession slowed to a crawl. They were in Ker now, the unofficial province where Ashhur’s dark-skinned children resided. Ceredon had never been here, and despite his pain he could recognize the beauty of the place. In many ways Ker seemed like elven lands-the earth sparsely farmed, the wildlife free to roam wherever it wished. There were none of the fences, stone buildings, or clear-cut fields that had become common in most human lands, which made Ceredon, for the first time, feel a sort of kinship with the poor doomed souls. The settlements they came across were akin to those of his people; the land unaltered to suit their needs, with each simply built domicile nestled into the earth as if nature itself had given birth to them.

Yet despite their beauty, these settlements were the root cause of his dismay. Most whose path they crossed were abandoned, some with cookfires still burning in their large communal pits, but in others people still remained. These unfortunate souls were fallen upon in an instant, the flesh flayed from their bodies, their corpses hung upside down from the branches of the small, twisted trees that dotted the plains. It went like this for miles, a slithering militia bringing death, seeking out those who fled, to put them to the sword, even when the grassland was slowly overtaken by desert sands. At first Ceredon had counted the dead, but he stopped when he reached one hundred. It was too macabre to keep up the count.

Through it all Darakken, the demon in a human shell who led the charge, fed. Every time Ceredon saw the creature, riding high atop his palfrey like a pale courier of disease, with lumps shifting beneath his flesh, he would close his eyes and whisper a prayer to Celestia for strength. Sometimes she would answer, and renewed vigor would fill him. Most times, he heard silence. Do not abandon me, goddess, he silently told Celestia’s star, glittering in the heavens. I am not ready to meet you just yet.

These were his thoughts as the prince of Quellassar drifted off to a fitful sleep. He was awoken some time later by rough hands lifting him into a sitting position. Groggy, his head lolling, he choked as liquid was poured down his throat. Ceredon coughed and struggled in his restraints, the chains clinking with his every movement. His mouth felt as if someone had stuffed it with cotton. His right hand grabbed a fistful of leather, but he hadn’t the strength to push whoever it was away.

“Quiet,” a kindly voice whispered. “Stop moving. He’ll hear.”

Ceredon ceased at once, blinking the world back into clarity. It was still night, the half-moon high in the blackened sky. The camp slept all around him. He smelled shit and sweat and charred flesh. The one standing before him was Boris Morneau, the young soldier with the diamond-shaped scar on his left cheek who had arrived to inform Darakken of Karak’s orders to invade Ker. Ceredon had not seen much of the young soldier during their long march, but on occasion he spotted Boris riding at Darakken’s side. Though he had not noticed the soldier taking part in the various slaughters, Ceredon knew he had played his part. On seeing him, he hacked a wad of phlegm into Boris’s face.

“That was unnecessary,” the young soldier said, wiping the spit away. “I was trying to help you.”

“Get away from me, human,” Ceredon growled in the common tongue.

Boris put a finger to his lips. “I told you to be quiet. Should anyone notice what I’m doing, we’ll both be punished.”

“I never asked for your help.”

Boris let out a long, slow breath as he shook his head.

“You elves are impossible.”

Ceredon didn’t argue.

The soldier leaned forward again, holding out a wooden bowl filled with water.

“Listen, believe me or no, I do care what happens to you. I won’t try to make you drink again, but if I leave the bowl here, will you take it?”

Ceredon nodded.

“Good.” Boris placed the bowl down within his reach and then leaned back against the cropping of desert stones to which Ceredon was tethered. It was cold at night in the desert, a stark contrast to the day’s oppressive heat. The young man shivered, let out another long sigh, and closed his eyes. “I wish it wasn’t this way, you know.”

“Are you tired of sucking the demon’s cock?” Ceredon asked.

Boris laughed at that. “So you do know what he is. I’d wondered. The rest of the soldiers call him Crestwell, but they know his true nature. As for your elven brethren, well. . I think they know something is wrong-how can you not? But I feel they are denying it to themselves.”

“They are self-righteous and blood hungry,” said Ceredon. “Bloody fools, all.”

“Even the Dezren who joined the march?”

Ceredon hung his head. “No. Those are simply weak. And tired of the torture, the pain, the agony they endured for over a year. Their involvement is understandable. . though they deserve death just the same.”

“And you?”

“What about me?”

“What do you deserve?”

Ceredon opened his mouth, then shut it. Finally, he mimicked Boris’s position, leaning against the rocks and sighing. “I allowed countless Dezren to be tortured and executed. I murdered my uncles in cold blood under the pretense of justice. I deserve death, but when it comes, I will serve my goddess.”

Boris chuckled.

“What?” Ceredon asked.

“Serve your goddess,” he said. “Tell me, how does one serve a goddess while imprisoned in chains?”

Ceredon felt his neck flush, and he remained silent at the mockery.

“Thought so,” the man said. “All bluster, no plan. I swear, you elves are better at acting indignant than actually doing something about whatever bothers you. Let me see if I can get the wheels turning in your head. Start with this one, elf: Why has the demon kept you alive?”

“I will not pretend to guess the motives of a demon,” Ceredon said. “He must seek to humiliate me. What other reason could there be?”

Boris narrowed his eyes. “My prince, you know what the beast is. Do you really think that he would keep you alive for such a petty reason? If he wanted to humiliate you, he’d eat you, shit out your corpse, and then piss on it before his army. Try again, and this time, give it some thought.”

“If you are so wise, then tell me, and stop with the games.”

The young man shook his head. “You’re no child, and I’m no mother to spoon-feed you. Put some thought into it, elf. Stay aware. You want to serve your goddess, do it with your eyes open and your mind moving.” Boris paused, and he looked to the stars. “We’re close to our destination. Come tomorrow morning, we will be upon something called the Black Spire. The village of Ang is half a day’s march from there. I thought you might like to know.”

Ceredon thought to be snide, but he fought the reaction down. This man. . something was different about this man. By no means was he trustworthy, but he seemed more aware than the others, more. . mischievous.

“And why is that?” he asked.

Boris shuffled over and knelt before him. The solemn expression in his eyes only made Ceredon further concerned.

“Because Ang won’t be enough,” Boris whispered. “Because after Darakken destroys Ker, he’ll turn his back on his promise to your people. He will fulfill the purpose he was created for: devouring elves. Stonewood will come next, then Dezerea, then Quellassar. With Ashhur preoccupied and Karak not caring, there will be nothing to stop him.”

“My goddess will intervene.”

Boris looked at him queerly. “Something you shouldn’t hold your breath for, I think. Celestia has done little to protect your people so far.”

Celestia, keep Aullienna and Kindren far away from here, he prayed. Please, keep them safe.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked Boris. “Why do you not warn the others?”

Boris shrugged and then stood.

“Not my place,” he said. “And besides. . do you really think it’d matter? For an elf to listen to a lowly human soldier like me, I think I’d need to tie them up, beat them, starve them, and then drag them through a desert. But well, it’s laughable to think I’d find an elf like that whose opinion would matter. An elf his people would listen to. Just laughable.”

He walked away, and as much as Ceredon hated to admit it, the wheels were indeed turning in his mind.

It was midday when the strange sounds first reached Bardiya’s ears. He’d been sitting on a cliff with Onna Lensbrough, overlooking the emerald-green waters of the southern Thulon Ocean, when he heard it. His first thought was that a distant storm approached from the north, but when he turned to look that way, there were blue skies and thin white clouds as far as the eye could see.

“Not thunder,” he said.

“A different kind o’ storm,” said Onna.

Bardiya nodded at the older man, whose skin was dark and rough as leather and whose hair and beard were white as bone. “ ’Tis true, Onna. Remember that Ashhur loves you, no matter what occurs.”

“What do we do?”

“We stay strong. We stay true to the teachings of the one who created us.”

Even though he meant what he said, inside Bardiya wavered. It had been difficult to trust any of his preachings of late. His mouth would speak the virtues of love and forgiveness and decry violence, yet at night his dreams were filled with blood. From outside his body he watched himself crush the heads of his enemies with the trunks of trees, his massive hands ripping entrails from their stomachs. Over the last few weeks, he’d often lain awake beneath the stars on a bed of moss, pricking himself with a sharpened stick to stay awake. He was exhausted because of it, but he would take grogginess over those terrible dreams.

But this time, it was no dream. Karak had finally come for them all, and it’d be either the peace of his sermons or the bloody massacre of his dreams.

“You scared, my Lord?” the old man beside him asked. “You be shaking.”

“I am not your lord, Onna,” sighed Bardiya. “I have told you that many times. And yes, I am more frightened than I have ever been in my life.”

Onna nodded severely. “That why Ki-Nan and the others left us? Because they were scared?”

Bardiya cringed. “We mustn’t speak of them. Come, the God of Order approaches. Let us gather our people.”

The giant slowly rose to his full twelve feet, knees popping and elbows creaking. Another wave of agony washed over him when he raised his hands over his head to adjust his spine. Of late he had taken to railing against the pain, his constant companion for eighty-eight years in his forever-growing body, but in this instance he welcomed the hurt. The pain let him ignore the name Onna had just spoken, allowed him to forget, if only a moment, that his best friend had deserted him.

Together they turned away from the shore, taking the path through the thick forest back toward Ang. Bardiya gradually loped along while Onna used his walking stick to limp beside him, taking two strides for every one of the giant’s. In a matter of moments Onna was out of breath. The dark skin on his cheeks gained a reddish hue. Fearful that the older man’s heart would give out, Bardiya offered to carry him, but Onna refused. Onna was a proud man, a loner for nearly all of his fifty-seven years, more content to spend his days aboard his tattered cog, Kind Lady, than to break bread with his fellow man. The murder of Bardiya’s parents by the elves, Karak’s march west, and the constant fear of a lurching death had changed that. Not that Bardiya was surprised. It seemed that everything changed after the brother gods clashed in the shadow of the Temple of the Flesh.

You should have stayed your course, Ashhur, the giant thought. Had you remained true to your teachings, we would still have peace.

He shook his head and pushed through the final copse of tall evergreens as Ang came into view. The village sprawled out before him, tiny cottages haphazardly dotting a landscape of pines, tropical broad-leafed trees, and lush green grass. His people greeted him as he walked through the settlement, the fear plain on their faces when they peered toward the north and heard the steady thrum, thrum, thrum.

The villagers gathered in the center square, a wide, circular thatch of grass surrounding a giant fire pit. Gordo Hempsman, Tuan Littlefoot, and Allay and Yorn Loros were leading the charge, urging the frightened citizens to stay calm as they congregated. Bardiya and Onna remained on the outskirts of the square, allowing the stragglers to scurry past. It was only when all of Ang was present that he, the spiritual leader of Ker, took his place at the head of the assembly. Onna fell into the swelling ranks of his brethren, leaning against his walking stick once he found a suitable place to rest.

A myriad of dark, alarmed faces stared up at the giant-men, women, and children alike. Bardiya gazed on them and frowned. There were at least three hundred in attendance, which seemed like a copious number, but he knew better. Ang had once been home to a thousand strong, living, breathing, praying, and breeding by the cliffs overlooking the Thulon Ocean. Yet over the past three weeks, those numbers had dwindled as frightened individuals left the village, seeking safety in the desert, the plains, and the crags and cliffs bordering the water’s edge-anywhere but the one place Karak was sure to visit when he invaded their homeland. Some departed under cover of night, but most chose to leave in full display of their fellow Kerrians, words of warning on their lips and scowls on their faces.

Again Bardiya thought of Ki-Nan, and his frown deepened. The last time he’d seen his friend was on the craggy beach when the Stonewood elves had shown him the massive crates of weapons nestled between the rocks. “Gifts from Celestia,” as Aullienna Meln, the little princess of Stonewood, had called them. He and Ki-Nan fought about those weapons after the elves departed, and his friend stormed away in a huff. At the time Bardiya hadn’t thought much of it; he and Ki-Nan had developed an adversarial relationship when it came to what they believed to be right and wrong. Despite his friend’s words to the contrary, he expected to see Ki-Nan again that night at supper, sitting down and laughing off the disagreement as he always did.

But that never happened. Ki-Nan stayed away, his hateful, blasphemous words echoed by all who left after him. It is his doing, thought Bardiya. He is stealing my people’s hearts and minds, leading them on a path to ruin. He closed his eyes and prayed that they would all come back into the embrace of Ashhur’s love, prayed that all of Ang could share the burden of horror soon to come, but when he opened his eyes again, all he saw was the same small congregation. They fidgeted and squirmed, sniveled and hitched, nervous as a herd of antelope surrounded by a family of sandcats.

These are my people. I must comfort them.

Bardiya raised his arms above his head, casting an imposing shadow over his flock.

“Brothers and sisters,” he said, his voice booming and confident. If only they could see how frightened I am on the inside. “Dire times have come to our land. You hear Karak’s soldiers now approaching from the north. When they come, we will face them as one, with Ashhur’s grace in our hearts, as our deity always intended.”

“Is it really them?” shouted one voice.

“They want to kill us!” cried another.

“You said they would leave us alone!” accused a third.

Bardiya shook his head and held his arms out wide. He wished he could hold them all in a single, protective embrace.

“You are wrong, Grotto. I said Karak may leave us be. I do not speak in absolutes, unless I am speaking of the grace of the gods.”

“But Karak’s a god,” said Onna. He leaned forward against his walking stick for emphasis.

“He is.”

“Does he still have grace if he wants us dead?” asked little Sasha, her black curls glistening with sweat, though the air was cool.

Damn you, Ki-Nan. In a time not long passed, such concepts would never have crossed his people’s minds. There was no sickness, and none of them had died before their time. Yet that all changed when the renegade elves murdered Bardiya’s parents in the mangold grove, coupled with the news of Ashhur and Karak’s battle after that. At first he’d tried to allay their fears, but as time went on and his relationship with his friend soured, he saw that more and more of the populace not only understood these concepts but also felt the fear and doubt they caused. Someone had been feeding it to them, preaching violence and terror just as he taught love and forgiveness. Why could you not leave well enough alone, my friend? Why did you not trust me?

“All gods are glorious,” he told them. “All gods are mighty, the images of perfection.” He swallowed hard, not wanting to say the next part. “But that perfection is only an image. While a god’s ideals are flawless, the gods themselves are not. Gods can be wrong. Ashhur was wrong for turning his back on his flawless teachings, and Karak is wrong for marching into our lands.”

A collective gasp came over the crowd.

“But if the gods are amiss, what can we do?” someone wailed.

“We turn the tables. We teach them both the glory of grace and peace.”

A couple began arguing, followed by a pair of brothers. Then a group of elder women, their hair white as down, joined the fray, and soon the clamor of the throng overtook that of the approaching force. Bardiya tried to call out for them to stop, but they were deaf to him. A fist flew, striking Yorn Loros in the jaw. The violence of the display froze Bardiya. He had never seen his people like this before. He knew not how to react.

Just then he spotted Gordo Hempsman on the edge of the assembly, leaning heavily on his cane while his wife Tulani and daughter Keisha walked beside him. The family of three had been the only survivors of Ethir Ayers’s attack on the mangold grove that claimed Bardiya’s parents; Gordo’s limp was a result of a wound he’d received there.

The three of them reached the giant’s side. Keisha craned her neck to look up at him. Her eight-year-old body was tiny in contrast to his, no more than a fly that he could crush with a single hand, and yet the courage reflected in her eyes made her look as colossal as Celestia herself.

Gordo caught his eye next, then Tulani. The family nodded to him and faced the crowd. Bardiya could not hear Keisha as she began singing, but when her parents joined her, the thin vibrato of Tulani’s voice broke above the din. Bardiya listened to the words, let them envelop him-a sermon of Ashhur, sung to the sweet tune of a lullaby. He began to sing with them, and soon the angst of the crowd broke. One by one, the residents of Ang turned their attention to the singers, falling silent, allowing their voices to flutter across the plains, through the trees, into their hearts. At first only a few joined them in singing while the rest watched sorrowfully, but soon nearly all of those gathered in the square had their chins lifted into the air, their mouths opening and closing as they sang Ashhur’s words of love.

In that tiny space between one moment of turmoil and the next yet to come, Bardiya was happier than he had been in a very long time.

They sang for an hour, changing from one tune to another while the sun dipped lower in the west. They sang and held each other, their quarrels all but forgotten, even as the sounds of the approaching menace grew more and more present. They sang until a great horn sounded, seemingly ten times louder than a grayhorn’s bleating. Then the song tapered off, and all eyes turned to the edge of the northern wood, waiting, anticipating. Little Keisha continued to hum, the sounds of heavy stomping feet and snapping branches adding a percussive yet ominous backbeat.

A trail of wispy clouds passed over the sun, turning the sky red, as the first horse appeared from within the trees. It was an elf on horseback, his skin a sleek bronze and his hair like black satin, a vest of boiled leather painted green covering a tan jerkin, a khandar dangling from his hip. Bardiya’s mouth twisted in confusion. He had never seen an elf such as this before, for his only association had been with the Dezren in Stonewood, they of the pale milk-white flesh and hair with differing shades of gold. When relations between their races had been amicable, Cleotis Meln had told him tales of the Dezren’s cousins who resided on the other side of the Rigon River. The Quellan, he remembered, and his confusion doubled. What was this one doing so far from home?

Yet it wasn’t just one, for trailing after the initial elf came scores more, both Quellan and Dezren, pouring out of the trees like grains of sand through a sieve, their horses snorting and whinnying. They guided their steeds around the square, encircling the people. There are so many, thought Bardiya. From the trees emerged humans dressed in armor painted black and silver, carrying banners bearing the roaring lion. They lined up in front of the forest, flanked on either side by the elves, and soon the people of Ang were completely surrounded by flesh, leather, and steel.

For a long while no one moved. The elves and soldiers stared at the huddled mass, lips twisted into sneers, a burning desire to do harm showing in their eyes, and though each invader panned the crowd, it seemed their stares always settled on the giant. All sound but the noise of the horses ceased; even the crickets that usually began their sexual dance at the edge of dusk remained quiet.

Bardiya lifted his head. “Sing,” he said loudly, addressing his people. “Show our guests the glory of our love, of our beauty, of our kindness.”

“I truly wish you would not.”

It was a slogging voice, like rocks grinding together underwater. Bardiya took another step forward, looking on as a huge black charger trotted out of formation, approaching him. The charger acted agitated, as if it hated the duty of carrying its rider. That rider was a man of odd shape, the tight black leathers covering his body revealing enormous muscles that bulged and rippled in the wrong places. The man’s head was bald and warped; his chin distended; his eyes, beady red dots beneath a jutting brow. In a way the man looked like Patrick, only more monstrous.

Bardiya swallowed his fear. “Who are you that have come to visit us in our humble village?” he asked. “With whom do the people of Ang have the pleasure of making new friends?”

“Clovis Crestwell, former Highest of Karak.”

Clovis Crestwell? It cannot be. Bardiya had seen Karak’s first child only once, back in his youth, when his father had brought him along to a gathering of the four First Families in the swampland between the Gods’ Bridges. So far as he could recall, Clovis had been a tall and slender man with crystal-blue eyes, long silver hair, and a stately posture. He saw none of that in this bulging man-toad before him.

“You do not look well,” he said.

“Time changes all men,” Clovis replied. There was also that grating, almost inhuman voice to consider. “The last time I laid eyes on you, you were a mere five feet tall.”

“I have grown.”

“Apparently. Very impressive, if I do say so.”

Bardiya stretched his back, trying to appear even taller than his twelve feet.

“And may I ask you, Clovis, what your intentions are in our fair village? We are messengers of peace and love, and have no wish to fight.” He dropped down on one knee, bowing before the strange man and his army. He muttered a silent prayer to himself, his blood racing through his veins, and heard the rest of his people mimicking his actions behind him. “Whatever you desire to do to us, do it. If you wish to kill us all, do so. You will find no resistance here.”

“That is. . unfortunate. And predictable,” said Clovis. The man spurred his charger, and the animal bucked as it made its way around the assembly. “However, I do not wish to kill you.”

More agitated murmurs sounded, only this time it was from those on horseback. Bardiya looked up to see the elves staring back and forth at one another in confusion. Only the human soldiers didn’t seem surprised by the man’s words.

“You do not?” Bardiya asked. “Then why have you come here?”

“Why, we came to take you on a journey,” the man said, his words accompanied by the most wicked laugh Bardiya had ever heard. “Judice, get the chains and bind them. We cannot have anyone fleeing before their time.”

“And where do you plan on taking us?” asked Bardiya, standing once more. Behind him, his people whimpered when armored men carrying chains approached.

“To the tall black crystal in the middle of the desert, my brown colossus.”

Soldiers grabbed Bardiya’s arms. He could easily have thrown them aside, could have effortlessly bashed their skulls with his bare hands, but he stayed his anger and allowed them to bind him.

“The Black Spire?” he asked. “Whatever do you want with us there?”

“To fulfill your purpose,” Clovis answered with a wide, hideous smile. “I need you to bring true beauty back to this world.”