Blood Of Gods (Book 3)

by David Dalglish

Rachida nodded. “But how? I thought you said your magic was limited?”

  “I know, and it was. By Karak’s wilted prick, I thought I’d used up all I had fighting the demon! But it was a good thing I was spent, because had I not . . . ” He trailed off.

  “The fireball would have been much bigger?” Rachida asked.

  “Indeed. And then who knows how many of your people would’ve died.” The odd man laughed. “Hell, I might have blown up that mound and freed the beast again if that had happened!”

  “Somehow, I do not think that likely,” said Rachida.

  “Probably not. However, this changes things entirely.”

  “How so?”

  The man grinned. “Why else would magic be suddenly rendered powerful where once it was weak? My teacher, Errdroth Plentos, told me once that all magic lost potency once the brother gods came to Dezrel. So if now that magic has returned . . . ”

  “Then the gods no longer walk the land,” she finished for him. For Rachida, the thought was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. Be careful what you pray for and all. “How do you think it happened, if it did?”

  “Who knows?” Turock said with a shrug. He then pointed at his fellow spellcasters. “And I don’t rightly care. Just think on this, Rachida, my wonderful slice of the heavens. Let’s say the gods are gone. How many men and women do you know, in Neldar and beyond, who are practiced in the art of magic?”

  She shrugged. “You, I suppose. And your students.”

  “Exactly,” the man said with a wink as he proffered his pointed cap. “And some of the elves, of course. Which, if my grasp of numbers doesn’t fail me, will make me a very, very sought-after man.”

  “I suppose it does.”

  “You just remember to save some of that gold your men keep talking about for me. I think you owe me that much.”

  Rachida frowned and walked away while Turock laughed, not liking that statement one bit.

  An hour later, the cavalcade began the long march north. Rachida lingered behind, staring from a distance at the new hillock, the smoking divots in the earth, and the litany of corpses heaped on the ground. It was a quiet moment. She closed her eyes to pray for the souls of the dead, but suddenly realized that she didn’t know to whom to pray.

  “Is the great Rachida Gemcroft feeling introspective?” she heard Quester ask.

  Her eyes opened. The young sellsword was beside her, the blood in his forked beard now dried. It flaked off as he ran his hand through it. The handsome man smiled deviously at her.

  “Should you not be watching over my charges?” she asked him.

  “I handed the reins to Blackwolfe. The man’s eager. Has potential. Could make a good sellsword one day.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Anyway, what happens with grimy Talon doesn’t truly concern me. What I would really like to know is where we go from here.” He laughed. “Do you wish to remain in Paradise and build a new life for yourself?”

  She chuckled. “Fuck Paradise. I do not think I like it here.”

  That elicited a laugh from Quester as well.

  “As a matter of fact,” said Rachida, “I have a sudden, burning desire to march back to Neldar. Hopefully, I have someone there waiting for me, someone I haven’t seen in far too long.”

  Moira’s image flashed in her mind, her icy blue eyes, her silver hair, her slender body. Rachida felt warmth spread through her.

  Quester nodded. “So we find a way around the river and head east, then?”

  “No. We ride back to Conch and sail back to the Isles of Gold.” She looked at her last remaining Twin, its cutting edge stained brown. “I miss my son, and I have a very special gift for my husband too.”

  “That, and you still need to give us our gold.”

  “Yes, that too.”

  They laughed together and turned their horses about, heading toward the rear of the convoy as it plodded over the hills.

  CHAPTER

  53

  In the aftermath of the gods’ disappearance and the deaths of the twisted elves, the people stood in shocked silence. It seemed even the dying chose to still their tongues. Laurel felt a sort of deflating in the air, as if the souls of every living being who remained on what had once been a battlefield had been stripped of their wills. Soldiers of Karak and Ashhur, Sisters of the Cloth, Wardens from the west—all simply gawked at everything around them, confused as to what they should do next.

  Laurel approached the battlefield from behind, walking slowly alongside the wreckage of what had been Karak’s most glorious creation. The Castle of the Lion’s three towers were a heap of rubble that filled up nearly the entire courtyard. The stables to the rear of the castle were buried under a mound of gray stone. The ground had fractured, and heavy stones had begun to slide down into the earth, collapsing into the dungeons and tunnels below the castle. The thirty-foot wall was in pieces as well; only three short sections remained standing.

  As Laurel placed one foot in front of the other, she scanned the ruins. Shredded bits of tapestry, pinned below the chunks of stone, flapped in the breeze. There were iron cookware and brass candleholders strewn about, crushed and useless. In places, blood seeped from below the jagged boulders—all that remained of those who had hid within the castle during the battle. Laurel hoped Zebediah and Marius, the betraying members of the Council of Twelve, were among them.

  Somehow, she had a feeling they hadn’t been.

  King Eldrich walked to one side of her, Lyana Mori to the other. The king’s hands were shaking, his eyes bulging in disbelief as he took in the scene.

  “I don’t believe it,” he said. “She did it. Celestia banished them.”

  “Where did they go?” asked Lyana.

  Laurel swallowed hard. “I don’t know, Lyana. I don’t know.”

  Together, the three of them crossed through the area where once the portcullis had stood. There was a rotten stench in the air. The only sign that there had once been a wall and portcullis here was a single onyx lion, its rear half pulverized. Laurel shuddered and turned her head away from the thing. Lyana’s hand slipped into hers. King Eldrich cleared his throat.

  “What do we do now?” he asked. His voice sounded far away.

  “We keep going,” she told him.

  Countless eyes turned to them as the trio walked onto the bloody cobbles outside the destroyed castle wall. A group of men decked in bloodied armor stepped aside, allowing them to pass. One among them Laurel recognized—Malcolm Gregorian, the scarred former Captain of the Palace Guard. Malcolm’s good eye shimmered with tears as he looked at Laurel, but there was no recognition in his gaze. The large man turned away, his massive sword strapped to his back and a pair of black blades dangling in his hands. He shook his head, looking just as lost as the men around him.

  Laurel passed them by, allowing herself to patiently look upon the area where the battle had taken place. Corpses were everywhere—men, women, Wardens, and horses—grotesque reminders for those who’d survived the ordeal of what had just passed. She wondered if any of them were Pulo or Moira, or any of the other poor souls she had grown to love over the last year of her life. Whether they were or not, she knew that if they weren’t disposed of soon, this area would be nigh uninhabitable. Such a cold way to think, she thought. It was obvious no one shared her feelings. The people simply milled about, slowly breaking out of their stupors. The wounded were treated. Wardens, themselves appearing weary and mystified, knelt before those whose injuries were most dire, seemingly without care for which god had spawned them. Laurel looked on as a soft yellow glow rose up from one of their hands. The blood-drenched Warden stared at his fingers as if shocked that this should happen. Another Warden, a towering sort who walked with his head held high, leaned over his brethren and offered reassuring words. When he stood, the comforting Warden looked Laurel’s way and nodded. Laurel returned the gesture.

  A great murmuring could soon be heard, a thousand whispered conversations happening at once. T
he survivors began gathering in small groups. It was difficult to tell who was who, what with all as drenched in blood as they were. Laurel wondered if the men out there knew one another, or if they were simply looking to the closest person to them for comfort. She shrugged and walked on.

  Farther along the square, as the street leading to the South Road narrowed, Laurel found a small cluster of Sisters gathered before the front stoop of a coin lender’s store. Their wrappings red and heavy, they had their arms around one another as they sobbed. Laurel held out her hand, halting Eldrich’s and Lyana’s progress.

  “Why are we stopping?” asked the king.

  Laurel put a finger to her lips and watched.

  The men who walked down the road paid the Sisters no mind, wandering mindlessly toward the main throughway in a steady stream. Some tugged injured horses behind them, the only things of true value left on the battlefield. Only one individual, a woman, seemed to notice the Sisters. The woman took a pin from her hair as she weaved between the ambling men, and out fell a nest of red-blond curls. Laurel had never seen hair that color in her life aside from the poor girl who had once hung from the castle wall. A woman from Paradise, she thought. The red-haired woman approached the Sisters and knelt in front of them, placing her hands on the backs of the two closest to her. The Sisters turned to her, and allowed the new woman to join in their embrace.

  “What are we watching?” asked Lyana.

  “Healing,” said Laurel.

  The woman from Paradise leaned back from the embrace and faced one of the Sisters. Her head tilted to the side, and she smiled sadly. Reaching up her hands, the woman began undoing the wrappings around the Sister’s head, slowly revealing a shock of auburn waves, a pair of light green eyes, a thick nose, and full lips. The girl uncovered was young, thirteen at the most. The redhead leaned forward and rustled the girl’s hair before placing a gentle kiss on her forehead.

  Behind the two, the rest of the Sisters began removing their wrappings as well.

  “It’s symbolic,” she told King Eldrich.

  “What is?”

  “The removing of the bandages. They represent servitude. Once they come off, the allegiance to Karak ends. Look.”

  She pointed toward the meandering crowd. Now that the Sisters had uncovered their faces, the men drifted toward them, offering embraces and sincere words, comforting them as they would any other.

  “They’re allowed to care,” she said. “It doesn’t matter if they are from Veldaren, or Felwood, or Gronswik, or Omnmount, or even Paradise. It doesn’t matter which god created them. They are hurting, they have lived though a nightmare, and they require comfort. The gods be damned.”

  Lyana gasped.

  “I would watch your tongue, Laurel,” said the king.

  “Why? We have no reason to any longer.”

  “But we don’t know where the gods went. They might come back.”

  To that, Laurel laughed. “You heard the goddess. They aren’t coming back.” She waved her arm out toward the departing masses. “And everyone knows it. We feel little because we turned our back on our god long ago. But these people? They fought for their deity, were willing to die for him. You can see the pain of loss in each of their eyes. They’re alone in a world where the gods once walked among them. As are we. Faith will be given new meaning now. So will what it means to be human.”

  “Karak got his wish after all,” whispered Lyana.

  Both Laurel and the king looked at her.

  The girl continued, her tone childlike and timid. “Karak always said he wanted us to be free. That he wanted us to think for ourselves and make our own way.” She looked up at Laurel with pleading eyes. “Do you think he meant for this all along?”

  Laurel’s heart broke for her. All she’s suffered in his name, and still she loves him.

  “Who knows, Lyana?” she said. “Perhaps he did.”

  It was the easiest lie in the world to tell.

  King Eldrich squinted and stepped off the bloodstained slate walk. “And this peace . . . do you think it will last?”

  “No,” Laurel replied, sidling up beside the drawn-out man and slipping her arm into his. She didn’t fail to notice the way the king’s breathing hitched when she did so. “The shock will pass, and life will go on. We’re human. We err, we fight, we cheat, we steal, we kill. We’ll do just as we’ve always done, only now we do it rudderless.”

  “And what of Paradise?” asked Eldrich. “Ashhur is gone as well, which leaves another rudderless nation in our midst, one that has been ravaged by war.”

  “I think Paradise is the least of your worries, my Liege. There is too much to accomplish here.”

  The king nodded solemnly and faced the departing mob. The weary soldiers greeted him with esteem as they walked by. “And what do I do?”

  “You go among them. You talk to them. You inspire them. You’re the king of this land, no matter who it was that named you. And with no one to pull the strings, no one can rightly call you a puppet.”

  “I don’t have the tools, Laurel. I don’t have an army. I don’t even have a castle.”

  “You have something more than that. The people have known you as their king for nine years now. They recognize you as such. You must let those who would question your leadership see the real you. And as for a castle, you have the Tower Keep. It might not be as lavish as the Castle of the Lion, but perhaps that’s what you require. Someplace practical. Someplace easily defensible. Someplace as ugly as the sins of the human soul. This is now a new nation, with new rules and new laws, laws that you will help inscribe. You have everything you require to become not just a king, but a great king.”

  “Not everything.”

  “No?”

  “No,” Eldrich said with a wink. “A great king needs a great queen, after all. I’ve heard all the Wardens’ stories say so.”

  Lyana giggled and covered her mouth. As for Laurel, all she could do was shake her head and smile.

  EPILOGUE

  The cart was excruciatingly heavy. Then again, that was bound to be the case when the corpse of a twelve-foot-tall giant was sprawled atop it.

  “Shouldn’t you have lost some weight by now, old friend?” asked Patrick, his eyes stinging from the sweat running down his bulging forehead. He peered behind him at the corpse of Bardiya Gorgoros. The giant’s skin had gone from brown to pale gray, and his gums and lips had receded, but other than that, the body was shockingly well preserved. His eyes were closed, his chin held back, as if in prayer. If anything, he appeared peaceful. Patrick turned back around, focusing instead on lugging the cart down the gentle decline. He felt tears begin to well up. “We hardly saw each other over the last twenty years, but I miss the big lug now more than ever.”

  Big Flick, who hauled the cart’s other long handle, glanced over at him. The large young Turncloak sniffled and nodded, but said nothing.

  It was early morning as the somber group of eight trudged their way from the cliff on which Bardiya had died to the rocky flatlands to the north. All were silent save the occasional sigh. Preston, Joffrey, Ryann, and the Kerrian Allay Loros walked in the lead with Warden Ahaesarus while Patrick and Big Flick hauled the cart behind them. To the rear was a second wagon, the leads of the lame horse that pulled it held by Little Flick. That second cart held a trio of corpses, those of Preston’s sons, Edward and Ragnar, and Tristan Valeson, along with their paltry supplies. They had come this way to honor the dead Turncloaks, as Preston wished to bury his sons as their tradition demanded, beneath the rocky soil they once called home. Retrieving Bardiya had been Patrick’s decision. The thought of allowing the man whom Ashhur had described as his most pure child to rot while animals pecked away at his corpse had made him feel ill.

  Patrick grunted when his foot struck a protruding chunk of granite, sending pain flaring through his toes. He heard the horse snort behind him and cursed. He’d felt obligated to help haul the cart when they’d finally reached Bardiya’s body, a final show of r
espect to a man he’d once called friend, but it was frustrating that the cart needed human propulsion at all. After the attack on Veldaren, horses had become a rare and valuable commodity. That they had been given this lame mare, which had been wounded during the battle, was a wonder in itself.

  The three weeks since the gods disappeared from the face of Dezrel had passed by in a blur. Patrick himself had aided in clearing out the mass of corpses that filled the square where Veldaren’s castle once stood. In total, nearly four thousand of Karak’s and Ashhur’s children had perished, along with five hundred horses. Over a hundred Wardens had also left the world for good. The number of deceased was so great that they were burned en masse, in great pyres whose flames illuminated the sky for five days straight.

  After that, the process of rebuilding began. Three years of strife had ended, and yet it seemed humanity’s struggles were just beginning. With no more gods to guide the way, the people were lost. They wandered the city streets with empty stares. Few talked about anything but the gods. Prayer circles began to form daily as the survivors from both sides sought comfort in those who had been raised like them. Minor scuffles broke out. Survivors leapt from the tops of the city’s tallest buildings, and some wandered into the wilderness. The young human race was astray, a people without purpose, without guidance. Looking back was easier than looking forward.

  Many of those from Neldar packed what they could and headed off to the various villages and townships they called home. Moira was among those who left. Ashhur’s brave warriors had no such option. Food was scare, supplies scarcer. That, coupled with the long journey that was sure to face them and the uncertainty of what they would find if they ever did make it back to the former paradise across the river, forced their hand. Karak had razed much of the land, after all, and the eastern deity’s beast-men now roamed free. So most settled into the strange, faraway city, pining for the life they’d once had while struggling to adapt to their new one.

  Yet in the midst of hardship and blight, a slight thread of hope emerged. The king of Neldar began holding court nightly, the willowy man named Eldrich giving impassioned speeches from the steps of an ugly, imposing tower in the north of the city. Although he didn’t promise that life would be easy, or that each man, woman, and child would be free from suffering, he bonded the citizens together with pledges of unity. “We will endure this together!” he would proclaim. Moods began to brighten. People went back to work, smithies, carpenters, pottery makers, cobblers, and apothecaries reopening their doors. Others began filing into the city as well, exhausted soldiers of Karak who had abandoned their god on the battlefield and braved the harrowing journey back home. The fields just outside Veldaren were tilled and prepared for the spring planting, the farmers who worked them not wanting for helping hands now that there were so many unskilled laborers living within the city limits. A semblance of order was brought back to what had once been chaos. The City Watch was re-formed, an institution that Patrick was asked to enlist in, an offer he declined. Instead, he toiled the fields along with his people, his hope being that once the crops were cultivated, he could strike off west and reunite with his family. In the aftermath of war, he missed them more than anything, even his mother and father. Their sins against him seemed to grow less and less serious with distance, time, and hardship.