David Dalglish - Blood Of Gods

At least the arrows won’t reach me here.

She stayed crouched, inching along the ground and hamstringing as many men as she could. A queer sort of panic filled her when one of the men whose ankle she severed fell to the ground, only to have his face stomped by oblivious feet. Though the man’s armor was that of Karak’s Army, there were splotches of white paint covering the breastplate. Moira scooted to the side, avoiding another soldier’s blade, and noticed that almost all of Ashhur’s followers were simply wearing the standard of the lion, only painted over. With the crude paint chipping away during the battle, it would be nearly impossible to tell one side from the other.

The concern fled her when she heard a cry rise above the clamor. It was the scream of a tortured soul, of pain beyond physical, and she recognized the voice. She stood, grabbed a soldier from behind, hoped it was one of Karak’s, and slit his throat. Using his body as a shield, she spun around, looking for her opening. When she found it, a three-foot space of empty, bloody cobbles, she tossed the man’s corpse at the skirmishing men and ran in the opposite direction, putting as much force as she could behind her next jump, arrows be damned.

Batting away blows on either side, Moira hustled toward the sound. Luckily, the arrows were no longer flying on this side of the square, which meant her Movers had done their job. She had to keep one eye ahead and one eye on the castle wall, but then she saw him-Patrick DuTaureau, the father of Moira and Rachida’s child, sprinting along the wall. His expression was one of pure agony, pure hatred ; in that moment, he actually looked like the monster many had assumed him to be. She had fought by his side in Haven, and he’d never looked like that. She wondered what had transformed him so.

Then her eyes traced upward, and she wondered no more.

“Fuck no,” she muttered.

Hanging on the wall amid a long row of corpses was one that stuck out from the rest-a small, withered thing with red, curly hair. And beside her, his chestnut locks like reeds blowing in the wind, was Crian. Her brother, the only one in her whole family who had never judged her for her dismissal of the family code, hadn’t made it to Paradise after all.

“No!” she screamed.

A woman possessed, she hacked and slashed blindly, not caring in the slightest which side she killed. The frenzied nature of her assault created a wide gap in the packed group of combatants. When finally she dove out of the fray, she twirled around, whirling both swords in her hands, and split the faces of two soldiers who were brave enough to challenge her. When they fell, she followed the sound of Patrick’s ranting. She found him battling with a giant elf who wielded a pair of black swords. Patrick shouted obscenities each time he dove into a hysterical attack, only to be beaten back by a tumult of parries and jabs. The elf had split the chainmail on Patrick’s thigh and damaged his right vambrace so much it dangled off the hunchbacked man’s massive arm. His skill was too great; and Patrick, too angry. He was swinging wildly, carelessly. Before long he would open himself up and receive a sword in the face for his troubles.

Moira sprinted toward the clash, ducking out of the way of charging soldiers, leaping over a couple others. She reached Patrick’s backside just as the large elf launched into a flurry of cleaves and slashes. Leaping upward, she used Patrick as a steppingstone, kicking off him to continue her forward assault. Flying frontward, she twisted to give her slashes even greater power as she came crashing down. The elf edged away in time so that only the tips of her blades caught his flesh, scoring both his cheeks at once. Moira landed on both feet in a low crouch, her shortswords held one over the other in a defensive stance. Behind her, Patrick staggered ahead, almost falling on his face.

“What the FUCK !” he screamed.

“Sorry,” Moira called out, chancing to glance over her shoulder.

Patrick’s eyes widened as he huffed. “Moira?”

“It’s me,” she said. “Look out!”

Patrick tilted to the side, and a soldier’s blade passed through the air where he’d been. The hunchback planted a meaty fist in the soldier’s face, breaking his nose before gutting him with that massive sword of his. When he shoved the dying man away, he looked back at Moira. His face whitened.

Moira whirled back around and saw that another five elves had joined the one in black, who looked wild with rage, the dual scars, like red teardrops, tracing down his cheeks. Moira shifted position, standing sideways with her front leg bent and the rear leg straightened, one of her shortswords angled above her head while the other one was held out straight. A moment later Patrick was by her side, holding his blade by his waist with both hands.

“Just like old times?” he asked out the corner of his mouth.

“Just like old times,” Moira echoed. “Only channel your anger. Don’t be stupid.”

“Yes, mistress,” the deformed redhead said.

The elves rushed them, and Patrick sprang forward, this time swinging with measured strikes. Moira used his back as a pole, spinning from one side of him to the other, parrying jabs, and knocking aside slashes. One of the elves fell, then another, devastated by Patrick’s sword. During one of Moira’s revolutions, the elf in black was there to greet her, planting a boot squarely in her chest. The wounds the Judges had given her flared to life. She shrieked and twisted back to the other side, but there was no relief there. Another of the elves lashed out with his khandar, a blow Moira had no choice but to block. Had she tried to duck beneath it, the blade would have dug into Patrick’s neck. A spike of pain coursed through her upper body when their swords met.

A hand wrapped around her, and Patrick scooped her up while ramming his shoulder into the elf in black. Patrick screamed, that shoulder obviously wounded and soaked in blood, but he pumped his legs nonetheless. He used his strong arm to toss Moira into the air. She did a pirouette, driving her foot into the square-faced elf’s nose. He barked and stumbled away, blood gushing from his nostrils.

Patrick faced the massive elf while Moira landed and scampered back around him. They stood back to back, staring at the enemies that surrounded them.

“Sorry our reunion ended so quickly,” said a winded Patrick.

“It’s not over yet,” answered Moira.

“No? Too bad. I’m getting tired of this.”

“You can rest when you’re dead.”

“Ashhur help me, that’s sort of the point.”

The elves charged from all sides, holding their khandars like spears. Moira tensed for impact, but then the elves were thrown off balance by a mighty gust of wind. A round of explosions came next, as if people themselves were suddenly bursting all at once. Blood and viscera flew into the air in geysers all around, so thick that it fell like rain, coating everything.

“What the fuck was that?” shouted Moira.

“The undead,” said Patrick hesitantly, obviously confused. “They. . exploded.”

A single word then rumbled over the battlefield, as potent as a million thunder strikes happening all at once.

“ENOUGH!”

It seemed for a moment as if the battle had ceased. In the middle of the chaos rose Ashhur, his silver armor layered with blood. He took a massive step, scattering the soldiers, Sisters, and Wardens before him. Never before had Moira seen a god look so angry, not even Karak. One of his hands was gathered into a fist, and the other held the limp form of one of the massive Judges-Lilah, the female. With a mighty swing of his arm, the deity tossed the giant lioness through the air, where she crashed down into another group of combatants. Moira heard a feline whimper. The thing wasn’t dead.