Blood Of Gods

CHAPTER 8

The bombardment began at sundown.

The ground shook with the force of an earthquake, rattling Patrick’s teeth. He slipped off the rock he sat on, whacking his elbow on the ground. His wineskin slipped from his grasp and spilled across the grass. Preston and the Turncloaks, who were with him around the fire, similarly lost their balance. Little Flick even teetered into the flames, scalding his meaty hand in the process. All around them, the defenders of the wall broke into panic.

“What the fuck?” Patrick shouted, turning his eyes upward, toward the wall and dark purple sky looming above him. Another massive thud then sounded, ringing in his ears. Bits of rock and dust misted down from the top of the wall.

“They’re attacking!” said Preston’s son Edward.

“They can’t be!” Joffrey Goldenrod said. “They haven’t finished their towers!”

“Climb the wall and see then!” shouted Tristan Valeson.

Patrick heard an odd whining sound and threw his arms around the closest man to him. “No, you dumb shits!” he said, collapsing on top of young Ragnar Ender. “Get down!”

A massive black shape soared over the wall, crashing against the upper parapets and sending large chunks of brick and stone careening to the earth. It was like a deadly rain pounding all around them. The black shape continued its flight, dropping ever lower until it smashed down a hundred feet away, right atop a small gathering of confused people, crushing bodies and hurling chunks of dirt into the air. Now unmoving and in the light of their fires, Patrick saw it was a boulder the size of a small hut, gray and craggy. Screams of pain erupted, filling the early evening with terror.

“The catapults!” Preston shouted. “They’re using the catapults!”

Of course they are, thought Patrick. He should have known this was coming. It had been almost five weeks since the first failed assault on Mordeina’s walls, and the people within were beginning to grow careless. Since that day they had done nothing but watch from afar as the besieging army busied themselves with building engines of war. By last count, they had a dozen working catapults and four siege towers. Master Warden Ahaesarus surmised they would not bring an offensive until the entirety of their force was ready. After the last failed attempt, Patrick had thought Karak would just wait them out until their depleted food stores ran out completely.

They were wrong.

Patrick rolled to the side, grabbed his discarded helm, and threw it on his head. Luckily they had just finished supping and he hadn’t yet removed his mismatched armor. He hurried to his feet and spun around in search of Winterbone. The dragonglass crystal adorning its hilt sparkled in the light of the flying embers, and he snatched the huge, trusty sword in his mitts. This time, he wasn’t getting caught without his blade.

He could hear wailing in the background as he slung Winterbone’s scabbard over his shoulder and began to make for the wall steps, followed by the Turncloaks, the newly trained archers, and a large cadre of Wardens. The Drake spellcasters were nowhere to be found. Patrick’s insides rumbled, the wine he’d drunk jostling about in his belly. The scent of rot was much stronger than it had been five weeks ago, making bile rise in the back of his throat. It’s only a reaction-I’m not truly sick, he thought. Many had fallen ill from drinking the city’s water, despite Azariah’s best efforts to keep it clean. There were thousands of sick, filling each day and night with the sound of puking and shitting. It became a full-time effort for the healers, which now included Warden Azariah’s ever-growing army of students, to cure their sickness. Even so, there were many who succumbed to dysentery before having the chance to be healed. Their bodies were stashed in a small space to the right of the inner gate, heaped atop those who had died during previous assaults, to keep the settlement relatively free of further rot and disease. With every square inch of space required to keep so many people housed and fed, there was nowhere to bury the corpses. They would have to wait.

Ignore it, Patrick told himself. Think of Nessa instead of your stomach.

He did, and anger gradually cured his ills.

Still more heavy impacts rumbled as Patrick reached the bottom of the stairwell. Ahaesarus stood there, handing out bows to those who required them. Their eyes met and Ahaesarus nodded to him, as if he could see the fury burning behind his eyes. Patrick passed him by and led the charge up the stairs, his muscles not aching this time, though he could still feel a dull throb in his knees. Even the vibrations brought on by the collisions couldn’t shake him. Ever since that first assault, he’d dedicated himself to running up and down these stairs five to six times a day, getting his body used to it. Now it was easy, though his mismatched legs would always offer him at least a little discomfort.

Another boulder soared overhead while he was halfway up the stairs, this time missing the parapets and instead snapping off one of the rock-hard branches of Celestia’s tree a few yards to the left. The branch thumped off stone before falling into the narrow space between the inner and outer walls. More screaming reached his ears from down below, and a moment later he heard a sickening thud and elongated crunch. He wondered how many had perished this time, how many bodies they would have to clean up in the aftermath.

Too many if you don’t move your ass.

He fully scaled the stairs and dashed along the wall walk, weaving around the casks of purified water that had been placed along the wall for those whose duty it was to watch the distant army. Countless others followed on his heels. By then he had counted sixteen impacts. Patrick sprinted past the smashed merlons and ducked down, peering between the stones at the army beyond. Now at the top, with a cold wind blowing in his face, he could hear the shouts and chants coming from Karak’s followers, those fifteen thousand strong separated by nothing but a mile of dead, brown earth. Another dark and spinning object cut across the purple sky, forcing Patrick to duck once more.

“Incoming!” he cried.

The new boulder struck the wall, and he heard a loud crack. The distant army roared.

Keeping his head down, Patrick counted to sixty before chancing to peer between the merlons again. He squinted, trying to force his eyes to adjust to the ever-deepening darkness. A strange sound came to his ears, like an infant’s rattle combined with countless twigs being snapped consecutively. He braced himself and stood in the nook between the two merlons for a better vantage point, but it was no use. All he could see was a black, shadowy blur on the horizon. No more boulders careened through the air.

Something isn’t right here.

The Turncloaks had taken their places to his right, three Wardens to his left. Behind him men and Wardens alike rushed about, some carrying thick lengths of rope, others lugging between them oaken barrels filled with pitch, while the archers took their places along the rear of the wall. We could still use some spellcasters. Patrick looked to his left and saw that the gangplank connecting the inner and outer walls was still intact. For a moment he considered dashing across it to get a better look.

A strong hand grabbed his shoulder, halting him in place. Patrick looked up into Judarius’s face.

“Best not,” the Warden said.

“Why? What do your fine eyes see that mine don’t?”

“Glowing red eyes, a hundred feet from our wall,” Judarius said. “It is the First Man. There are a great many soldiers alongside him.” The Warden scowled, then pointed toward Celestia’s tree. “And there, black shadows climbing along the outer wall, where tree meets stone.”

Jacob. That bastard.

“Give me fire!” Patrick shouted. One of the torchbearers came over to him, panting, fear making his eyes glisten. The youngster held the torch out to him. Patrick grabbed it and hopped off the wall, heading down the line until he reached the tree, ducking beneath branches hard as iron. Judarius and the Turncloaks followed behind him.

“What’s going on, DuTaureau?” asked Preston.

“The First Man is using dark magic to pulverize the weak spot in the wall,” Judarius answered for him.

When he reached the side of the tree, Patrick bent over the ledge and held the torch down into the darkness between the walls. Sure enough, he saw tubes of shadow, almost like smoke, winding in and out of the new cracks that had formed in the thick masonry of the outer wall. Heavy chunks of stone fell away, creating a bevy of holes that grew wider and wider as the shadowy feelers thickened. Soon those holes combined into one large opening.

“Shit,” Patrick muttered.

Tristan was at his side. “What is that?” the young soldier asked.

“Celestia’s tree may be harder than steel, but the outer wall is already weakened at the edges where the fireball first struck,” said an authoritative voice. Patrick turned to see Ahaesarus standing behind them, hands on his hips, looking godly in his own right with his impressive height and long golden hair. “The boulders chipped away at the stone, further cracking it. Now Eveningstar is using whatever new power he possesses to widen it.”

“How many soldiers approach?” asked Preston.

Judarius shook his head. “Too many. Five hundred, with at least half the army trailing behind. More than enough to overpower us.”

Patrick closed his eyes, and once more he saw Nessa’s face, green with rot, worms crawling through her empty eye sockets, her hair a nest of red hay. He squeezed his fists together, grinding his nails into his palms until they drew blood.

“They will not overpower us,” he growled. Rearing back, he tossed the torch into the space between the walls, the glow from seventy feet below like a lone firefly in an empty field. Yet the light was enough to show clearly the breach in the wall growing wider and wider. “They still have to destroy the inner gate. . and they still have to pass though there. We have fire and weapons and height, and the breach is only wide enough for them to enter three at a time at most.”

As if to answer him, the slithering shadows tore another hunk of wall away, broadening the fissure.

“Will you stop that!” Patrick screamed. His rage reached its boiling point and everyone-Ahaesarus, Judarius, the Turncloaks, the archers-gave him a wide berth as he spun around and ran toward the interior edge of the rampart. He collided with the low wall, gazing out at the carnage the two falling boulders had caused. His eyes settled on Manse DuTaureau, sitting atop its high hill like a privileged child, surrounded by flickering torches.

“Damn you, Ashhur, you miserable excuse for a deity!” he cried. “Wake up already! What are you waiting for? Have you given up? Do you wish for us all to perish here? Tell me! ”

There was no answer from the low stone building where the God of Justice had lain unconscious for well over a month, but there was from behind him.

“They’re here!” Judarius shouted, and the clunk and clank of steel and stone followed as the defenders of the wall took their position.

“Well, fuck,” Patrick muttered. He turned to see Ahaesarus ordering those who carried the barrels of pitch to cross the gangplank and douse the enemy when they drew near. Patrick watched them go, struggling as they hefted the heavy barrels over the thin slab. The rest of the men the Master Warden ordered to stand ready, to unleash all they had on the horde once they entered the breach.

Just then a strange, fluid sensation overcame him. Patrick wobbled, having to grab tight to the low wall to keep from falling. It seemed a beam of light washed over his vision and then vanished. The sound of wailing followed, definitely Jacob’s voice, splitting the night. It carried on for what seemed like forever, a raucous cry of pain. Good. I hope you’re burning.

“Look there!” Ryann Matheson, one of the Turncloaks, exclaimed.

Patrick rushed to the wall and peered down. The bulging tubes of darkness writhed, catching fire and dissolving into the night. Jacob’s distant scream intensified. The crease in the wall had grown to fifteen feet wide, bits of mortar dropping from the rough stone in a trickle. Celestia? thought Patrick, lifting his eyes to the spot in the heavens where the goddess’s star would appear when full dark overtook the land. Have you come to our aid when our creator will not?

The wail died away, and the rumble of booted feet grew all the louder. Arrows flew over the outer wall, striking one of the barrel bearers, causing him to fall backward into the gap between the walls. The rest stooped, avoiding the flying bolts. Those standing with Patrick on the inner rampart hid behind the merlons as steel tips bounced off the stone. The attackers shouted orders, words Patrick couldn’t quite make out. But Judarius did, and the Warden raised his voice to those manning the barrels.

“Light them and toss them over! Do it now!”

Torches lit long thatches of rope attached to the tops of the barrels, and then the bearers shoved them off the parapets. A series of explosions and bright flashes came from far below, seen through the gap in the wall. Patrick poked his head out from where he’d been concealed, and heard screams as the soldiers were set ablaze outside the wall.

“Burn, you motherless twats! Burn!”

It was a matter of moments before all six barrels were lit and thrown over the side, and with the advent of screaming from those doused with flames came desperation-fueled cheers from the defenders. Another barrage of arrows came a second later, ending those cheers with blood and sinew. Three more barrel bearers died, as did four of the archers standing behind Patrick. He heard metal scrape against rock.

“More barrels!” he called out. “They’re coming through!”

The remaining three barrels were hefted atop the inner wall. Down below, soldiers began to lurch through the fifteen-foot breach.

“Wait for more of them,” said Patrick. “The more in the gap, the more we burn!”

The arrows continued to soar, piercing men through the thigh, the chest, the face. Now the screams atop the wall matched those coming from without. Patrick was growing more and more infuriated by the moment. An arrow clanged off his helm, jostling it to the side. He righted it and chanced a peek into the narrow pathway below. He saw shapes moving in the darkness, packed tight together like fish in a crowded barrel. “Now!” he shouted. “Drop the barrels now!”

Drop them the bearers did. Two of the barrels burst, the pitch spreading, sliding over the shields and giving the passageway the look of some fiery abyss. The third barrel bounced off heavy, upraised iron shields, crushing the two soldiers that held them, its fat wick snuffing out as it rolled off to the side, disappearing beneath the invasive horde of humanity. The fires began to peter out, and there were very few screams. Patrick was left to look on in horror as the soldiers edged their way through the passageway, the last of the flames fizzling atop upraised shields. The soldiers that had fallen, either choked by the smoke or burned by the fire, were trampled.

Not enough dead. Not anywhere near enough. Their damn shields saved them.

Patrick whirled on Master Warden Ahaesarus. “I thought you said this would work!” he yelled. “I thought you said the fire would stave them off!”

Ahaesarus shook his head, appearing more annoyed than afraid. “It did. It slowed them.” He calmly backed out of the way of a zipping arrow and pointed down. “If their shields had been wood, it might have incinerated them all. However, iron is much more difficult to burn. But the pitch will still burn, and still bring them pain.”

Patrick stared into the passageway. The soldiers were at the inner gate now, and he heard the clang of those in front pounding on the bars. Another arrow flew by him, grazing his unprotected elbow. An angry red line appeared between the torn folds of his tunic.

“Someone, please stop those arrows,” he heard Ahaesarus say.

“How?” asked someone behind him.

“Return fire!” screamed the Warden.

The archers hurried across the gangplank in a crouching run. Four of them were struck with bolts, and they collapsed into the gap, bouncing off the upturned shields. Patrick took a deep breath, pleading for patience. It was only when the defending archers began returning volleys of their own that it seemed safe enough to move about. Patrick ran toward the low interior wall and peered over and to his left, where he saw men and Wardens with pikes defending the inner gate, lunging with pikes and swinging heavy stone hammers. He also saw the Drake spellcasters, all twenty-six of them, scruffy and bearded, running between the two fallen boulders and the wailing people gathered around them. They were headed for the stairwell, but still a hundred yards away. Too far. Too damn far.

“Preston!” Patrick exclaimed. “Preston, where are you?”

The crowd around him had thinned, and the old soldier shoved his way through those who remained, his seven underlings beside him.

“What?” Preston asked, raising his voice to be heard over the ruckus.

“How are you at fighting in close quarters?”

“Why the Abyss do you care?”

Patrick gestured below. There had to be two hundred of Karak’s soldiers down there now, bottlenecked at the breach. The soldiers were intent on bashing down the gate and hadn’t spread out farther along the passageway, leaving no room for their compatriots to enter.

A smile formed on Preston’s lips. “Good enough. . especially with a running start.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

Patrick turned to the frightened people behind him, those who carried ropes and supplies. “You all-run along the wall. Fifty feet beyond the gate, I want you to fasten the ropes and throw them over the side.”

Ten young men took off, dragging their ropes behind them. The Master Warden stopped yelling instructions to the archers on the outer wall and turned his way.

“What are you planning, Patrick?”

Patrick grinned. “To stop the bastards from breaking down our gate.”

“With just the nine of you?”

“Make that ten,” said Judarius. The black-haired Warden lumbered from the back of the pack, holding a giant stone club in his hands. A stray arrow flew by, almost taking him in the throat.

Up stepped the Wardens Grendel and Olympus. “Eleven and twelve.”

“Twelve’s a good number,” said Patrick.

Ahaesarus shook his head. “You cannot hope to fend off so many with only twelve.”

“No, but you can.”

“How?”

“Gather up all the casks of purified water you can. Wait until Turock’s spellcasters crest the stairs. When they do, dump every single cask onto the soldiers, and then tell the casters to give them a good shock.” He winced. “And please make sure we’re nowhere nearby when lightning strikes.”

Ahaesarus shook his head. “You are all insane.”

“We do what we can. Now excuse me, Master Warden, but we have men to kill.”

Patrick turned on his heels and sprinted the other way, leading Judarius, Grendel, Olympus, and the Turncloaks along the wall. They passed over the gate, and he could hear the grunts and banging and shrieks coming from both those trying to get in and those fending them off. “Help will be there soon,” muttered Patrick, and he pushed his stunted legs faster.

The ten youngsters were almost done tying off the ropes when Patrick and his band of cutthroats arrived at the spot fifty feet past the gate. They backed away silently, giving the fighting men room to maneuver. Patrick, Preston, and Judarius tested the ropes, making sure they would hold. It seemed they would.

“Ready?” Patrick asked the Turncloaks.

“Ready,” said Preston.

“Ready,” echoed his sons with far less confidence. Of the rest of them, only Big and Little Flick seemed truly ready to dole out some punishment.

That best be enough.

Over the wall they went. Patrick descended at a rapid pace, the roar of the soldiers a deafening clamor. The passageway was almost pitch black when his feet hit the ground. He gave a quick glance down the corridor and saw the flurry of activity fifty feet away as the soldiers continued their assault on the inner gate. They were so intent on their task that none of them bothered to glance in his direction. He swore he saw one of the bars bend to the point of breaking. Drawing Winterbone from its sheath, he took in a deep breath as those around him readied their own weapons. Though it was dark he could see the gleam of violence in Judarius’s green-gold eyes.

“Wardens, stay behind us,” Patrick whispered to the tall, elegant creatures. “Use your height to your advantage. Let our armor take the hits.”

The three of them nodded. Turning back to the fight, Patrick lifted his sword high and murmured a prayer to Ashhur.

“No better time than now, you laggard. You best keep us safe.”

Useful as surprise might have been, they really wanted intimidation and shock, and with the greatest roar he could manage Patrick led the way, sword raised high as his party joined in with their own hollering. Those on the outskirts of the packed-together mass started, heads whipping in their direction, eyes wide with fear. The distance between them vanished in a heartbeat, and Patrick thrust Winterbone forward like a spear, driving into their ranks, stabbing upward, thrusting backward, and swinging his elbows to smash jaws, allowing room for those behind him to make good with their weapons. There were grunts and shrieks all around him as the soldiers tried to counterattack, but he was too strong and the space too cramped. Most couldn’t even get their weapons drawn. The few that succeeded did more damage to their fellow soldiers then to him. Alongside him crashed the rest, a chaos of dying, the Wardens finding their weak spots and smashing them with their giant clubs and mauls.

Someone collided with Patrick from behind, and he felt cold steel slip beneath the armor on his back. A hollow clang followed, and the steel disappeared, gashing him in the process. Patrick stumbled, his wound leaking, tackling a pair of struggling soldiers in the process. Before a swinging sword could halve him, he rolled to the side. The blade buried in the face of the one of the prone soldiers, eliciting a furious cry from the attacker.

Patrick tugged on Winterbone’s handle, but there was a body on top of the sword, pinning it down. He rolled from one side to another, trapped by an ever-closing wall of armored legs. In the darkness of the passageway, it was chaos. He couldn’t tell friend from foe. He glanced up and saw a shadowy, sneering face press in on him before that face exploded in a rain of saliva, blood, and teeth. The soldier collapsed atop him, and Patrick saw a large figure looming above the crowd, swinging away with a club, shadowy swirls of hair dancing behind him. Never before did Patrick think Judarius could have appeared so vicious, so deadly.

Finally able to wrench Winterbone free, he plunged the blade into another belly, legs driving to give him power. He kept his legs pumping, shoving the body backward as far as he could. A sudden surge of panic hit him as he wrenched the weapon free. In the bedlam he’d lost track of where he was.

A second later came a deafening crash of thunder and a flash of light so intense he was momentarily blinded. Men screamed, flesh sizzled. Patrick fell backward, crashing into an unknown soldier and eventually slamming the back of his helmed head against something hard. A hollow twang rang in his ears. When the stars cleared from his vision, he glanced behind him and saw that he sat atop a bleeding Joffrey Goldenrod. Quickly he brought his eyes forward, seeing the soldiers who had been nearest to the gate stumbling about in panic while countless of their compatriots hollered and shook. Still more bolts of lightning and energy flew from above, though their flash was not quite as bright or powerful.

About damn time.

In their panic, the surviving soldiers attempted to flee back the way they came, scampering over the soaked and shuddering pile of dead soldiers in search of the chasm in the wall. They too perished, their bodies thrown into convulsions while the smallclothes beneath their armor caught fire. Those who didn’t flee were cut down by the Wardens and Turncloaks. Patrick looked on in wonder, not able to believe his plan had worked. Even more surprising was just how terrifying the spellcasters could be, naked power killing without chance of defense or retaliation.

The putrid stenches of smoke and roasting meat reached Patrick’s nose, and he gagged. This time he did empty his stomach. . right on top of Joffrey.

“Had enough, old boy?” asked a hoarse, tired voice.

Patrick rolled off Joffrey, who scampered away from him, retching. He looked up at a bloodied and limping Preston. When the older man smiled, his teeth were stained red.

“I dare say I have,” Patrick said.

“What do we do now?” asked Ragnar Ender, just as bloody as his father.

Patrick himself was covered with nasty cuts, and now that he’d vomited, he could feel every stab of pain that covered him.

“Now we have someone open the gate and let us in,” he said, spitting out his words. His head tilted to the side, and he looked beyond the sodden bodies of the dead soldiers to the hole in the wall beside the massive trunk of Celestia’s tree. Several hundred of Karak’s men were dead, but how long until thousands more rushed through the gap? “Actually, strike that,” he said, struggling to his feet. “First we need to get someone down here to fix that wall.”

“No need,” shouted Potrel Longshanks, the eldest of the spellcasters, from up on top of the wall. Frowning, Patrick looked up to where the men from Drake gathered. They were working on something, and he could see the magic flicking off them like the light of tiny stars. Then, without warning, the ground shook. The broken pieces of the wall rumbled as if alive, and then they rolled toward the gap. One atop the other they piled, groaning and shifting. Soldiers still trying to get inside were crushed by the ascending stones. It was hardly even, nor a third of the height it had originally been, but when the noise stopped, and the spellcasters lowered their arms, the breach had been sealed.

Potrel laughed down from the rampart.

“Celestia’s not the only one who can fill a hole,” he shouted.

“Bloody Abyss,” Patrick shouted up to the wall. “Why in the name of Karak’s hairy ass did you not do that earlier?”

Potrel shrugged. “I thought you wanted to kill a few of them first.”

Patrick shook his head as Judarius clapped him on the shoulder, laughing.

“Damn spellcasters,” Patrick muttered.