David Dalglish - Blood Of Gods

The smoldering ruins of Paradise abruptly ended, replaced by fields of grass, dull green from the winter’s snow, and trees that were hearty despite their empty branches. The smoke that constantly seemed to envelop them all but disappeared. Patrick looked all around him, taking in his surroundings. After the desolation they had passed through over the last three days, he thought he’d never seen anything more beautiful.

Then the convoy came to a halt once more; only this time a tired grin stretched across Ashhur’s sallow face as he gazed upon the obstruction in the road. The wall of swaying undead parted, and the god stepped through them, trailed by his Wardens. Patrick shot Preston a look, and the two men followed.

The obstruction in the road was a group of what looked to be at least two hundred dark-skinned people. They were camped right in the center of the Gods’ Road, sitting around cookfires, wearing only their bloodstained smallclothes. Piles of mismatched armor, once worn by Karak’s soldiers, were stacked outside their small clusters. Their horses-only a handful of them-grazed lazily on the field of flattened grasses to the south of the road. The men of Ker all rose when they spotted the eastern-marching convoy, appearing pleased as they gazed up at Ashhur. Oddly enough, though they looked at the numerous undead with startled expressions, they didn’t withdraw in fear. It was almost as if seeing such horrors had become commonplace for them, which struck Patrick as particularly discouraging.

He scanned the assembly for a sign of his giant old friend, but Bardiya was nowhere to be seen.

Three of the Kerrians talked with the rest of their group and then approached Ashhur, meeting the deity halfway. All three dropped to their knees before him.

“Your Grace,” said the one in the middle, a tall youngster Patrick didn’t recognize. In fact, as he scanned the Kerrians’ faces in the dying sunlight, he realized he couldn’t identify any of them. Had it been so long since he’d traveled farther than the Black Spire? It didn’t seem like it.

Then again, the passage of time is fleeting when you don’t age.

He rode his stallion up to Ashhur’s side, and the three men of Ker turned their eyes to him. All three looked at him with suspicion, and two seemed repulsed by his appearance. Patrick frowned. It had been a long while since he’d experienced such a reaction; he’d almost forgotten how insulting it was. He wondered if they would have reacted the same way if Bardiya had been with them.

“Allay, Midoro, and Nusses-my children,” said Ashhur, thankfully drawing their attention away from Patrick. “Why are you blocking the road? We wish to pass.”

The one in the middle bowed low, his black skin gleaming in the waning light. “We were waiting for you, your Grace.”

“If you desire to join our ranks, I ask that you pack up your belongings, mount your steeds, and find a place among the column. The bridge bearing my name is but a few hours away, and we will ride through the night if need be to reach it.”

“Are you pursuing Karak, your Grace?” asked the one named Allay.

“Of course.”

“Then the bridge to the delta isn’t where you need to go.”

“Is that so?”

The one named Midoro, a bulky young man with a wide jaw and piercing hazel eyes, nodded. “It is, your Grace.” He pointed north, toward a lengthy backdrop of rolling hills that ended at a thick wood. “The god of the east went that way.”

Ashhur faced the direction in which Midoro pointed. His pale lips twisted into a grimace, and he shook his head.

“Of course,” the god said.

“Bardiya already ran off after him,” said Nusses. “He ordered the rest of us to go back home, but those you see here couldn’t bring ourselves to abandon him.”

“Wait,” said Patrick. “Bardiya is going after Karak on his own?”

Allay, Midoro, and Nusses nodded.

Ashhur seemed to mull over the men’s words for a moment before turning about and facing his legion of Wardens. “We will make camp here, with my children from Ker,” he said. “But only for an hour or two. Pass the message along to the others. There are no safe passages across the Rigon, north of the bridges, and the terrain is rocky and perilous. We will be greatly slowed.”

As the others dispersed, including the Turncloaks, Patrick trotted up to his deity. “I wish to go on ahead.”

“Do not worry for Bardiya,” said Ashhur. “My child knows what he is doing.”

“Are you sure of that, your Grace? What if he’s not in his right mind?”

Ashhur tilted his head forward. “I have felt him in my thoughts, my son. He has recaptured the grace he thought he lost. He is as complete now as he has ever been.” A sad smile came across the deity’s face. “However, if you wish to forge ahead, you may. The undead will find the footing treacherous in the forest. Form a party with the Master Warden, and search out my brother’s army. But you will only look-not engage. Not until the full of my force is with you.”

Patrick almost opened his mouth to protest, but decided against it. “Very well, your Grace.” He dropped to a knee, bowing low.

Ashhur placed a hand on his head and then turned away, heading back toward the swaying undead and the short-lived camp that was now being raised between them. He lingered there for a long while, staring up at the northern wood. He knew his desire to rush to Bardiya’s aid was rash. It was selfish. He’s my friend. I don’t want to lose him too.

Gods knew he had lost enough already.

Moira Elren was in a boiling rage as she raced toward Veldaren. The horrific images she’d seen the day before refused to leave her, a nightmare that haunted even her waking hours. She leaned forward in the saddle, gritted her teeth, and dug her heels into her horse’s flank, urging the animal to gallop faster. The pounding of hooves filled her ears as the Movers struggled to keep up with her frantic pace.

They exited the forest and entered the city from the south, passing by the Watchtower, the setting sun reflecting off its spire. Moira could see none of the City Watch roaming around the entrance to the tower, but that wasn’t surprising. In every village and shantytown they’d delivered food to during the long journey north, men of fighting age were a scarcity at best. She and her Movers had only seen a handful of roving bandits, and those disheveled men kept their distance when they caught sight of her four large companions and their steel. It seemed that in all of Neldar, only Catherine Brennan had rebelled against Karak’s demands and kept afloat what her husband’s family had built. The farther Moira traveled, the more her once seething hatred of the woman transformed into genuine respect.

Perhaps if Erznia had someone like Catherine leading them, I would not have found what I did.

She bore down, the drab gray buildings lining the South Road flashing by on either side. Tears of fury formed in her eyes as the memory crowded in.

The decision to visit Erznia had been an impulsive one. She hadn’t stepped foot in the settlement since she and Rachida had fled to Haven more than fifteen years ago, and the closer she drew to the hidden community within the trees, the more her excitement built. Even though the Moris had been subjected to great losses over the last couple years, those who remained had been like a surrogate family to her. To see Yenge, Alexander, Caleigh, Ebbe, Dimona, and Julian again would fill her heart with joy. To sit and share a drink with Oris, the scarred beast of a man with a heart of gold, would bring a smile to her face. She wanted nothing more than to relax, to recharge. Laurel Lawrence could wait a few days while she filled her belly with Yenge’s signature spiced lamb kabobs served over a bed of leeks and turnips. . so long as the fall harvest had been plentiful.