David Dalglish - Blood Of Gods

Patrick sighed. If it wasn’t one thing sapping Ashhur’s strength, it was another.

The first had been the task of sealing the huge gap in Mordeina’s wall after the collapse of Celestia’s tree. That effort had taken the deity almost six hours to complete and was accomplished only with the help of the nine spellcasters who hadn’t been killed during the raid on the settlement. Next the god raised a temporary passage to replace the Wooden Bridge, which lay in ruin-Karak had apparently splintered the structure after his army crossed. After that came Ashhur’s efforts to quell the fires that raged on either side of the road as they marched. The deity had also taken it upon himself to pass along his healing touch to any who might need it-human, Warden, or even horse-as they proceeded at breakneck pace toward the east.

And now this.

“There’s so many,” Tristan whispered, the young soldier’s eyes wide and disbelieving as he stared at the impossible things surrounding them.

Patrick glanced at the boy. He looked as frightened as Patrick felt. “No shit,” he said, trying to break the tension.

No one laughed.

They had come out of the smoke that billowed from the shattered lands bordering the Gods’ Road-beasts of every species imaginable, wolf and elk and hawk and boar to name a few, standing upright as they broadened around the massive convoy. Luckily Ashhur had sensed the beasts’ presence before they’d appeared. The god stopped the march, ordering his eight thousand brave warriors to bunch up while the undead he commanded surrounded their ranks, forming a wall of dead flesh. If he hadn’t, the exhausted new army of Paradise would have run smack into Karak’s new pets.

As it was, while the beast-men snarled and howled and snapped their jaws when they first emerged from the smoke, they hadn’t yet attacked. They simply leapt about, their numbers far too many to count, encircling the undead in the same way as the undead encircled the living, rarely coming within ten feet of Ashhur’s deceased sentinels. Occasionally, one of the more wild-looking beasts would venture close to the walking corpses as if testing its strength, but not once had any truly attempted to cross the barrier.

Those trapped in the middle of the undead were in a state of unease just as great, if not greater, than the pacing beasts. The air was filled with the sickly sweet scent of their fear. Patrick felt it as well, a churning deep in the pit of his stomach that made his throat run dry and his shoulders quake. I have it better than most, he thought, and that was the right of it. At least he knew the gods were capable of such feats of alteration, having watched as Ashhur created fiends like these on two separate occasions. For the others, seeing wild beasts that walked like humans must be like living a nightmare.

“Form up!” came a firm voice from Patrick’s right. There he saw the Master Warden Ahaesarus walking among the men, four other Wardens behind him. His face was stern, and he ambled with ease, hands clasped behind his back. At least someone isn’t frightened. Though, perhaps it was only an act to help calm the nerves of his wards.

If it is, it’s a good one.

“What do you think they’re waiting for?” asked Preston Ender.

Patrick looked up at the old soldier. Preston sat atop his horse, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed, hand cupping his thick gray beard as if deep in thought. He didn’t seem afraid in the slightest. That makes two. Patrick thought.

“I don’t know,” he said aloud.

“How many do you think there are?”

Patrick shrugged. “You tell me. I can’t really see from down here.” He had lent his new stallion to a man named Duncan earlier that day, saying that he wanted to jog for a short while to get his blood pumping. A funny suggestion, considering running was extremely painful for Patrick given his uneven legs. It was something he only did when absolutely necessary. But Duncan was a proud man, and he would have taken offense if he’d known that Patrick had only made the offer because Duncan looked like he was ready to pass out from exhaustion. Stupid fucking git, Patrick chided himself, wishing he had that horse now.

Preston leaned forward in his saddle. “Impossible to tell for certain. They keep moving around. But there are certainly lots.”

“That’s helpful,” Ragnar muttered from beside his father.

Preston cuffed his son on the back of the head, and Ragnar rubbed the spot, looking upset. Little Flick laughed at him, which made his brother, Big, laugh as well. Edward chuckled. Soon, the whole of the Turncloaks were guffawing like a pack of hyenas in the midst of frightened lambs. Patrick smiled truly for the first time in quite a long while, feeling the tension break. The other men in close vicinity seemed put off by the display. Warden Barnabus even shushed them, but the Turncloaks didn’t listen.

“You know,” Patrick said after the laughter died down, “your boy has a point. You don’t even have a guess for us?”

“Fine,” said Preston, shaking his head. “Let us say. . a hundred thousand.”

“A hundred thousand?” said a panicked voice from among the others.

“Only a guess!” the old soldier shouted, and he glowered at Patrick. “You see? That is why it’s not a good idea to make assumptions, especially out loud.”

“Got it,” Patrick replied.

Preston gestured for Patrick to come hither, so Patrick placed a hand on the man’s horse and got up on his toes.

“Though there do seem to be twice, maybe three times as many beasts as there are undead,” he whispered, serious as a lightning strike.

Patrick rolled back flat on his feet, any joviality he felt fleeing him. Ashhur had more than twenty thousand walking corpses at his disposal. The math was demoralizing.

“Shit.”

He spun around, elbowed a man wearing a comically large helm to get him out of the way, and began walking between two columns of frightened people. “Where are you going?” he heard Preston ask.

“I think a god might have a better grasp on numbers than you,” he shouted over his shoulder.

Ashhur lingered just inside the ring of undead, standing beside one of the wagons holding their paltry food stores and fronted by a company of thirty Wardens. The frightened men and women of the convoy kept edging closer to the deity, seeking out his protection, but the Wardens shielded the god while Ashhur remained inexplicably standoffish. Patrick approached the line of Wardens, preparing a tirade for when they would try to stop him from advancing, but oddly their numbers parted as he clanked toward them, allowing him passage. He cocked his head, uncertain. Warden Judah nodded to him on his way by.

He sidled up to the deity, who was standing mere feet behind the wall of undead, gazing out at the legion of beast-men in the same way Tristan had. His flesh was still chalky; his hair seemed to have lost its golden luster; and his normally pristine silver armor now looked a dull gray, but that somehow only made him seem more statuesque and imposing. Patrick cleared his throat, and Ashhur’s softly glowing eyes lowered to him.

“Patrick,” the god said.

“Your Grace,” Patrick replied.

“I have been waiting for you to come to me.”

“You have?”

Ashhur nodded. “Please, climb atop the wagon.”

“Um, all right.”

Patrick did as he was asked, using his powerful arms to haul his bulky frame onto the wagon’s roof, where his sightline was almost even with Ashhur’s. Boards creaked beneath his feet. For a moment he simply stood there, in awe. The multitude of beast-men had seemed daunting when he’d been down below, but up here, able to fully witness the sea of writhing fur that seemed to stretch out for a mile in every direction, the view was entirely different. It wasn’t a daunting task that faced them, but an impossible one.