David Dalglish - Blood Of Gods

“Your brother’s been busy,” he said, trying to keep from careening into despair.

“Indeed he has.”

Patrick thought back to the morning Ashhur created the grayhorn-men, pictured the landscape darkening and turning brittle as the life-giving energy was siphoned out of it. “But your Grace,” he said, “to make so many. . he must have gutted half of Paradise to pull it off. . ”

Ashhur frowned. “He did no such thing. These beasts are different. Remember when I formed the wolf-men, so long ago? You asked me why I did not make them more intelligent, and I told you it would greatly weaken me. Karak has taken no such precaution. Just as we did when we created humanity, he gave these creatures a piece of himself, each and every one of them. Though they are still close to the beasts they were, in time their intellect will grow, as will their drive. And they will be loyal, entirely, to Karak.”

Patrick gave the deity a queer look. “That makes no sense, your Grace,” he said. “Why go through the trouble of making these beasts smart, if they’re not smart enough to realize when we’re sitting ducks?”

“If they were mere beasts, they would have already attacked,” said Ashhur. “It is that intelligence at work here. Karak wanted them to surround us. They were created to make me choose.”

“Choose? Choose what?”

“That which is more important to me: my need to pursue my brother or the need to keep my children safe.”

Patrick frowned.

“I don’t get it.”

The deity turned to face him. His expression was exhausted and filled with a mixture of anticipation and doubt. It was not a look befitting a god, and it made Patrick nervous.

“I can scatter them if I wish,” Ashhur said, lowering his booming voice and directing it so only Patrick could hear. “They are still base creatures, and whatever intelligence they have, I can still overwhelm with fear. But these. . things will move deeper into my lands, and when they do, they will hunt my children, without warning, without mercy. Yet if we fight the beasts, our forces will suffer casualties, and it will give Karak ample time to distance himself from our troops.”

“So what will you do?” Patrick asked. His voice sounded small and insignificant in his ears.

The deity inclined his head. “We stay the course,” he said, “and hope my children are intelligent enough to hide within the walls I’ve raised for them when the beasts arrive.”

“What of those who aren’t in Mordeina? There must be thousands of them.”

“Those, we simply pray for.”

“And who does a god pray to?”

Ashhur sighed once more, his glowing eyes aimed at the gray-blotted sky. “Anyone that will listen.” Patrick didn’t think he’d ever heard anything more depressing in all his life.

Ashhur turned away from him. Patrick was left to stand atop the wagon alone, surrounded by frightened humans and Wardens on one side, and countless undead and beast-men on the other. The beasts’ grunts and growls rose in volume, their eyes following the god as he progressed along the line. Patrick could see hatred in their glares, but awe and dread as well. In that way, the creatures were very much like himself.

The deity strode ahead, the line of undead bulging outward as he neared their numbers. The beast-men outside the protective circle howled and snarled, backing away as the walking corpses pressed closer to them and snapping their jaws at Ashhur. The god held out his hand, and his ethereal sword appeared from the mist, massive and glowing.

The sea of decaying flesh parted, and Ashhur walked past them, each step measured, determined. The beast-men snarled, a guttural chorus that caused the very air to quiver. Patrick looked on uneasily as twenty or more of the braver beasts, former wolves and elk, charged the deity, claws outstretched. Ashhur swung his sword with such speed that the blade became a glowing half-circle as it cut through the attacking beast-men. Bodies were carved in two, the beasts’ blood washing over Ashhur. In a matter of moments, all of those that had attacked were dead.

The other beasts close to the deity nervously backed away. For a moment Ashhur simply stood there, staring at them, while blood fizzled and popped on his glowing blade. Eerily calm, he knelt down and placed his fingers on the already scorched ground. Flames immediately sparked to life, racing away from the god in either direction like twin waves and rising twenty feet into the air. The wall of fire raced along in front of the swaying undead as it circled around them. The inferno blocked Patrick’s view of the beasts, but their shrieks and howls of pain could be heard over the violent crackle of the flames. He had to shield his eyes from the brightness as the atmosphere became superheated. Sweat rolled over his brow.

Ashhur shuddered for the briefest of moments, and the flames died away, retreating back toward the being who had created them, revealing a ring of smoking, humanlike corpses. There had to have been more than a thousand of them. Patrick squinted, looking on as his god forced himself to his feet. When he took his first step, his right knee buckled, and he almost fell. His face was more drained than ever before.

And then it was over, the beasts’ howls echoing across the land as they fled into the distance. Ashhur strode back toward his children, the deity’s armor caked with blood, his expression tired. Men rushed Ashhur, falling to their knees before him, begging the god to say he would keep them safe. Patrick thought he saw Ashhur’s dimly glowing eyes well with tears as he knelt down among his flock, allowing them to gather around him and offering reassuring words. This seemed to lift the mood of the men, a sentiment that passed through their great numbers like a wave. Soon many of them wore smiles, even if most were wary. The din of the fleeing beast-men drifted into the background, seemingly forgotten. Patrick couldn’t help but think of Mordeina and the many villages outside Paradise’s capital settlement. It seemed they would need Ashhur’s protection far more than those here at his side.

Patrick glanced behind him as the last of the beast-men disappeared into the lingering smoke. A cluster of brawny wolf-men was the last to leave, casting hateful stares at the god of the west before they themselves disappeared. For a moment Patrick took in the reality of all that surrounded him, and had to fight back despair; where there had once been forests and grass, there was now a country of glowing, smoldering coals. It hardly looked like a land worth fighting for.

Yet fight we will. His resolve grew as he watched his god calmly nurture his children. Patrick climbed down from the wagon and sought out the company of his Turncloaks, his brothers-in-arms. If Ashhur is willing to sacrifice so much of himself, how can we do any less?

The Wardens reorganized the people into their formations, and soon the march began anew. Ahaesarus took the lead, his extremely long legs churning as he jogged, sword raised, ushering his wards onward while Ashhur loped behind him. Patrick found Duncan and retook his stallion, his knees throbbing as he climbed into the saddle. He exchanged a few casual remarks with Preston, Edward, and Tristan as they cantered, but his gaze kept finding its way back to his god. Ashhur looked like he might fade away right then and there. Patrick wished there were a steed large enough to carry him.

The caravan moved onward, the undead dragging their carcasses along, somehow keeping pace despite their stiffness. The sun crept low behind them, casting long shadows over the Gods’ Road. A few of the horses faltered, two of them snapping legs, forcing a shaking Ashhur to heal them. It seemed not even broken mounts could stop the march. They were near to Ashhur’s Bridge now, much too close to consider stopping.