David Dalglish - Blood Of Gods

“Shut it,” Moira snapped, elbowing the man in the chest. “It’s not like that.”

Gull fingered his sword. “It is a logical strategy.”

“So what say you, my Liege?” asked Pulo as he threw his arm around Laurel. Laurel in turn rested her head on his shoulder, enjoying the smell of sweat on the man’s clothes.

King Eldrich gave them a disapproving look. “It could indeed work. But I worry about how long it would take to organize such an assault. Say what you will about our peoples’ ability with swords and spears, and their willingness to die for our cause, but none of us have truly fought a war, only skirmishes. Will they listen? Will they follow instructions? Will they even understand them?”

Laurel shrugged. “Who knows?” she said. “You wanted my advice, and I gave-”

The ground shook, cutting her off. Dust and dirt rained down from the ceiling. The candles flickered, growing dimmer before dancing upward once more.

“What in a maiden’s twat is that?” shouted Danco.

Again the ground trembled, and this time half the candles went out. Screams split the silence and feet began to pound the floor above their heads as the people in the storehouse proper began to panic. The entire structure seemed to be creaking.

“Will it collapse?” asked Pulo.

Rodin glanced up. “Let’s not stay here and find out.”

Everyone in the small room leapt to their feet. They threw open the door and dashed down the hall, keeping King Eldrich between them. The other guards in the cellar waited by the ladder, hurriedly gesturing for them to climb.

One after another, they entered the storehouse’s main room. Laurel was the second one out, and she helped the others, still in pain from their injuries, get to their feet. She then gawked at the scene before her. The people were indeed panicking, shouting and clustering even more tightly together in the center of the wide space. A few fights broke out as others sought safety within the wall of flesh. Then a trumpeting sounded, like the loudest horn in all of Dezrel. Laurel’s heart nearly pounded out of her chest.

That’s when Laurel noticed Moira’s eyes were wide with terror. The silver-haired woman slowly turned to her and then walked right past her, heading for the barred door. The Movers were right on her heels, and Laurel and Lyana followed suit, King Eldrich and Pulo behind them. Danco and Rodin lifted the heavy bar and dropped it to the ground. The horn blew again. They all walked outside.

It was dark now, the night moonless. Laurel stared east, toward the heart of the city, in wonder. For the longest time, Veldaren had been quite dark during nighttime hours, but now there was a brilliant yellow glow that lit up the black. It was like the days before war, when taverns and inns saw business throughout the evening. Despite that deafening horn and the way the ground shook, Laurel felt a sliver of hope.

Then came a booming voice that shook her teeth, and that sliver disappeared.

“MY CHILDREN, COME TO ME!”

Those who had called the storehouses home before the arrival of the rebellion began to stream out of the buildings, wandering hesitantly toward the glowing center of the city.

“Karak has returned,” said King Vaelor, looking dead already.

“Oh shit,” said Pulo.

“We have never fought a god,” said Gull. “It might be interesting.”

Moira stared over at Laurel, her eyes rimmed with purple. “So much for your plan.” There was no humor at all in the statement.

All Laurel could say was, “I know.”

To Velixar’s eyes, Veldaren was a shadow of the city it had once been. It was dark and silent, save for the faint whimpering sounds that drifted along the wind like a cricket’s song. The streets were empty. The larger buildings were scored with giant claw marks; the thatched roofs of outlying homes were burned, leaving behind hollow stone shells. From darkened windows peered the weak and craven, unwilling to show their faces as their god’s army returned. Karak had told Velixar, before the fateful final attack on Mordeina, that the Final Judges now ruled the city, but he couldn’t have imagined what that meant.

If only Karak were with him now.

Velixar led the remaining four thousand of Karak’s Army onto the cobbled North Road. The barrenness of the city caused the soldiers’ moods, which had been high when they first caught sight of the Castle of the Lion’s three spires, to plummet. The only thing that brought them any sort of relief was the fact that they were now on solid ground. The journey through the Northern Plains had been harrowing; the untamed ground coated with thick mud from the thaw, sucking at booted feet and the horses’ hooves and making the nightly camp a dirty, uncomfortable affair. After such a long time away from home, fighting their Divinity’s war, the soldiers likely wished for nothing more than the warmth of a hearth and a soft bed to rest their bones. Velixar couldn’t blame them, though he doubted their comfort would last long. Ashhur would be here soon. And when that happened. .

My Lord, where are you?

Karak had left them in Felwood, the deity walking away from Velixar and Lord Commander Gregorian in a huff one night and riding the shadows away. That had come after Velixar found the god overlooking what had once been the most populated village in the Plains. Felwood was now virtually abandoned, many of its homes crumbling from winter’s heavy winds and snows. Only a few stragglers remained, mostly starving women and their malnourished children. Just as the citizens of Veldaren now hid, so had they. The soldiers were left to plunder whatever stores were still available, which were paltry. It seemed as if most of the village had taken all they had and simply left.

“There is no faith in me here,” Karak had told him that night. His tone was odd, a mixture of anger and sadness.

“There are few people here, my Lord,” Velixar had replied.

The god shook his head and clenched his fists. “I am not speaking of this village, Prophet, but my kingdom . My ability to draw from my essence grows less and less potent each time one of my creations turns his back on me.”

“You are simply weakened, my Lord,” Velixar had replied. “You require time to heal.”

“No. I require faith .” The god had gazed down at him, golden eyes ablaze. “All deities draw strength from their faithful. It is what gives us purpose, what gives our existence meaning. Without devotion, we would fade away to nothingness, re-entering the heavens a speck of what we were, eventually forgotten.”

“Yet you still have power, my Lord. You are still mighty.”

“That is only because of you, my son. Your faith is great; it builds upon my own. As does the Lord Commander’s, and that of others like him.” The deity sighed. “Alas, that is not enough. I will require more, and swiftly, if my vision is to come true.”

“What will you do, my Lord? How will you make the downtrodden love you once more?”

At that, the deity had laughed. “I do not require love, High Prophet. I require faith . And there is more than one way to bring that about.”

And then he was gone.

Velixar grunted at the memory, guiding his horse onto the North Road and the city proper. To his left rose the spire of the Tower Keep. Simply laying eyes on the keep had once filled him with pride, but he felt none of that now. It was an empty structure, devoid of meaning-a partially completed dream, just like this war had become. He thought then of Mordeina, of the walls surrounding Ashhur’s prized settlement, and again felt disgusted with himself. The seventeen years he had spent forming the groundwork for this war could have been put to better use. He should have waited, worked to build up Veldaren instead, raising a wall around the city like the one surrounding Port Lancaster in the south. He should have assisted the First Families instead of undermining them, helping to build Karak’s children into something fearsome, something powerful. He glanced behind him, at the rows of soldiers that marched and rode solemnly through the street. It was entirely possible that these four thousand were the last men in all of Neldar. What future was there if that were the case?