David Dalglish - Blood Of Gods

Velixar felt a shiver run through him, the burgeoning fear of thousands being chastised by a rage-filled deity lingering in the air like fog. The pendant grew hot against his chest, his nerve endings tingling. His eyes widened as he gazed up at the deity.

I require faith. There is more than one way to bring that about.

Karak’s voice lowered in volume, becoming nearly sympathetic in tone.

“All is not lost, my children,” he said. “Even now my brother marches on this city, along with a legion of walking dead, bent on bringing an end to all I have created. We can defend that which is mine. We can stop Ashhur, demonstrate for him the true meaning of virtue. It is up to you now, my children. You must show faith in me. You must give to me the very souls I gave you. Betrayal will no longer be tolerated.” The god shifted to the side, extending his hand toward the nine dangling people. “Those you see are the faithless. This man, Jinkin Heelswool, and his daughters have turned their backs on my glory, as many of you have. You know them as the ones who offered sustenance to this great city when it was most needed, but the gift they offered was tainted. In their hearts there is blackness; there is chaos. They have consorted with those who wish to bring down their own architect. The Final Judges have deemed them guilty, and so have I. They must be punished.”

“Fuck you!” shouted the old man as he thrashed. “You are no true god! You are a liar !” The other eight, his daughters, simply cried and pleaded for their lives.

Karak ignored them. “In the quest for order, there is no mercy. Those who blaspheme against my name shall be punished with fire.”

The deity snapped his fingers, and the nine hanging from the gallows burst into flame. It raced over their flesh, making it bubble. Still they writhed, flaming bits of them falling off their bodies and scorching the wooden planks below. Their screams pierced the night, the air smelled of burning flesh. A few of the soldiers standing close by the gallows vomited. The massive crowd wailed and moaned. The smell of fear wafting off the thousands, once pungent, became overwhelming.

The golden glow of Karak’s eyes brightened.

It took the blasphemers nearly ten minutes to die. When they finally fell silent, their charred remains smoked and crackled. Karak stared at the corpses, smiling, and turned back to his children.

“Ashhur is near,” he bellowed. “My brother will arrive with the rising sun. He will be vicious, and so shall we. Now go, my children, all of you. Use whatever you can to bring Ashhur’s irreverent faithful to their knees. When the undead march into this city, when those who wish to enslave you in the name of justice batter down your doors, you will cry out my name, and you will fight.”

“Karak,” came a wavering voice from the mob.

“Karak,” said another.

Soon the night was filled with human voices shouting the deity’s name. It began somberly at first, but then grew louder and more certain. Male voices joined in with the female throng. The soldiers banged the swords and spears against their shields, creating a cadence. Even the Ekreissar joined in, Aerland Shen slamming his swords together as he guided his rangers in calling out the God of Order’s name. “KARAK, KARAK, KARAK!” went the refrain. “KARAK, KARAK, KARAK!”

The crowd began to disperse, still chanting, still pumping their fists. It was then that Karak went down on a knee before Velixar, staring him right in the eyes.

“What you did,” said the prophet, “was. . inspiring.”

The deity nodded. “Now is your time, Velixar. It is you I am counting on.”

Velixar’s eyes opened wide as he bowed. “I am your humble servant, my Lord.”

“You are more than that. You are the swallower of demons. You are power incarnate. It is through you that this battle will finally end. When I left your side, I went back to the mountains for a short while and thought of my clash with the giant. He might have sent me back to the heavens- would have-had you not intervened. Although my brother and I are too evenly matched to kill one another, a righteous follower can.” The god’s smile widened. “You have the power within you, High Prophet. You have the strength to overwhelm a god. I can see it as plainly as I can see the order in chaos. You are the salvation of Neldar, my son. You are the most perfect of all the gods’ creations.”

Velixar felt short of breath as he listened to his chosen god’s words. Even so, a grain of doubt tickled his thoughts. He clenched his hands before him and dropped to his knees.

“I will remain strong, my Lord. I will pour my entire soul into destroying Ashhur. However, I must ask. . what if I fail? What if my strength proves not great enough?”

Karak reached out and touched Velixar’s forehead with his massive index finger. “Just as with faith, there is more than one way to obtain order. I will show you.”

Images assaulted Velixar’s mind. Fire filled his vision, horrifying and purifying, wondrous and terrible, all at once. Velixar fell back, holding his hand before him, watching everything around him burn in his mind’s eye.

“So. . beautiful. . ”

Veldaren opened up around them as Patrick rode along the road in the city’s southern district. Even the vividness of the early spring sun could do nothing to brighten what looked to be a depressing wasteland of drab gray. To the right appeared a stone tower with a hollowed nook at the top. Though tall and indeed threatening, it too appeared dreary. “I’m not impressed,” Patrick muttered, bouncing on his stallion. He’d seen the amazing architecture his brother-in-law Turock had erected in Drake, the precise buildings designed by Warden Boral in Lerder, and the elegant Gemcroft estate in Haven, all of which made the boxy sameness of Veldaren less than inspiring.

“Your eyes tell a different story,” said Preston.

Patrick offered him a scowl. “Shut it.”

But there was no denying the truth to the man’s words. The sheer size of the place most certainly stilled Patrick’s heart. Even Drake, with all its advancements, was a place where many people resided in shanties and tents scattered just outside the central square. Veldaren had none of that. There was no grass to be seen. The street was cobbled, the walks lining it gray slate. The plain structures were numerous, built close together, most rising at least two levels up. And that didn’t include the three massive spires that cut into the sky ahead and to the right. Those were the most imposing of all.

“I’ve never seen a city before,” Patrick said. “A true city, like those in the Wardens’ stories.”

“Of course you haven’t,” laughed Edward.

There was edginess in the youth’s laughter. He’d been like that during most of their journey to this city across the river. Most everyone was tense, from the Turncloaks to the Wardens, to Ashhur’s children. Even Ashhur seemed anxious. The only ones who showed no fear were the thousands of undead that marched around them, their numbers so great that those on the perimeter of the ring were constantly colliding with the many buildings lining the road.

As for those inside the circle, so crammed were their conditions that they rode in three slender columns. When Patrick peered over his shoulder, he couldn’t see the tail end of the convoy. They were still exiting the forest to the south.

“I don’t like that,” said Patrick. “It doesn’t look good.”

“It isn’t,” Preston replied. “Being stretched this thin, we’re easy targets.”

“But what about the undead?” asked Tristan. Though he was nervous, the young soldier had a warm smile on his face as he gazed all around him at the dingy scenery. He’s from here, Patrick recalled. This is a homecoming for him.