David Dalglish - Blood Of Gods

“Did you hear it?” Patrick asked. “Celestia’s voice?”

Moira looked over at him and nodded. “I did.” She then gestured to the packed, bloody square. “They all did.”

The people of both Paradise and Neldar shuffled about, their expressions blank. There was sobbing to be heard, and moans, and a few voices whispering urgently, but other than that there was silence. He sought out familiar faces, but it was difficult to distinguish one man from another when their faces were all painted red with blood. The whole time, Moira prattled on about finding Rachida, her voice strained, seemingly on the verge of tears. Patrick’s heart went out to her. Then, someone shouted his name, and he halted in his tracks. Moira stopped as well, turning toward the sound with him.

From out of the stilled swarm marched a dignified soldier Patrick instantly recognized, flanked by four others. The tears that flowed from Preston’s eyes washed the blood from his cheeks. There was an unmoving form draped across his arms, its limbs and neck flaccid. Big and Little Flick, marching behind him, each held a body as well, with Ryann and Joffrey beside them.

Patrick held his ground as they approached. The remaining Turncloaks laid the bodies of their dead onto the bloodied cobbles before him. Patrick stared into the older man’s steely gray eyes as they twitched. There was such deep sorrow there, it broke Patrick’s heart.

He looked down at the three bodies, each caked with blood. Young men all, brave men all. Two were Preston’s sons, Edward and Ragnar. The third was Tristan Valeson. Tristan’s neck was a gory mess of pulverized meat. His eyes were open, growing cloudy in death, staring unblinking at the sky. Patrick knelt down, clutched the young soldier’s fingers with one hand, and closed his eyelids with the other. His heart, already broken from Celestia’s harrowing words, shattered some more.

“I’m sorry, Patrick,” he heard Moira say.

“You will be missed,” he whispered. He leaned over, gave Tristan a kiss on the forehead, and then did the same with Edward and Ragnar.

“They died good deaths,” said Preston. His voice cracked when he said it.

“Was there ever such a thing?” Patrick answered softly.

There were people shuffling around now. Patrick turned away from the corpses of his friends and looked toward the empty ruins of the castle. Kneeling in front of it was a man in heavy plate armor. His head was thrown back toward the heavens. “Release him at once, you bitch!” the man shouted in his anguished voice. “Karak, Karak, fight her! You cannot lose!”

Another soldier walked up to the kneeling man and tried to pull him away. The man turned suddenly, snatching the soldier by the front of his breastplate, and Patrick saw his face. It was the one who guarded Jacob Eveningstar, the soldier with the great horned helm, the marred face, and the dead, milky eye. The man shoved the soldier away, spouting obscenities. His shoulders hitched, and the sound of his sobs mixed with the others. Patrick rolled his neck and rose painfully to his feet. He looked to Moira, who wasn’t paying attention to him. Her eyes were focused on some point in the distance, widened in what could either have been shock or delight.

“I can’t believe it,” she said. The lithe woman took a few steps forward, as if in a dream, before bursting into an all-out sprint. She careened through the maze of corpses and dazed people until she ran headlong into four men who limped through the crowd. “Rodin!” Patrick heard her say as she threw her arms around a bald and strapping, blood-soaked man.

Something else caught Patrick’s eye right then. There were elves winding through the massacre, their neutral-toned clothes torn and spotted with gore. There were quite a few of them, coming from every direction. Someone shouted in the elves’ native tongue, breaking the eerie almost silence. Patrick whirled around, only to see the square-faced elf he and Moira had battled, standing with both his black swords in hand.

The elf was calling his brethren to him.

Patrick sidestepped around the three bodies at his feet, sidling up to Preston. The old soldier had gathered his wits; the only signs of his sorrow were the clean trails that snaked down his bloodied cheeks.

“Be wary,” Patrick said out of the corner of his mouth, tilting his head in the elf’s direction.

Preston understood. His hand fell to the handle of his sheathed sword. The other Turncloaks followed his lead.

The elves continued to gather a few feet from where the anguished soldier of Karak wailed. Patrick did a quick count, coming up with forty-three. The colossal elf in black gathered the others around, shouting in their queer tongue. When that was finished, the elves sheathed their swords and slung their bows over their backs. They began to cross the blood-splattered square, only to stop a moment later. It appeared as if each of their heads looked up to the sky at once.

A whisper on the wind reached Patrick’s ears, nearly undecipherable. Though he couldn’t make out the words, it was obviously the goddess speaking once more, her voice soft and snipped and threatening.

The elves fell to their knees. Their eyes bulged, and their heads were thrown back. Their mouths opened as if to scream, but no sound came out. Patrick inched forward, Preston and the surviving Turncloaks following. Patrick couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The elves’ flesh bubbled and warped, the color darkening to a slate gray. Their eyes retreated into their sockets, and their brows distended. Each of them lurched forward, gagging on an unseen blockage, their lips pulling back, their incisors growing slightly larger. They looked dangerous, feral. Then they all collapsed and writhed there for a moment, until they all fell still.

“What in the name of the unholy?” whispered Preston.

The scene had drawn a crowd around Patrick, blocking his vision and making him wary of the wall of human flesh that closed him in. He might not have been stunted, but with his hunched back and warped spine, he was shorter than most, and he had to hop up to see what was happening. He heard the crowd gasp before it started to back away. Frustrated, he and his remaining Turncloaks elbowed their way through the mass of bodies, seeking the front.

When they reached open air, they saw each of the elves standing and staring at their hands. They no longer looked like elves. Instead of looking noble, they seemed savage, their skin covered with pocks and scars. The large one with the black armor saw Patrick and jolted his head forward, snapping at him. Patrick jumped backward and yelped, his hand instinctively reaching for Winterbone.

The twisted elf’s eyes lost their focus. His head lifted, seemingly glaring at each and every face that stared back at him. Behind him, his brethren did the same. They grunted and hissed. A few of them tried to form words, but their tongues tangled in their mouths.

Then, suddenly, the large one’s head swung around. He gawked stupidly toward the demolished castle, until those deep-set eyes narrowed. A primordial scream left his mouth, and the former elf took off running, drawing those two black swords from his back. His brethren gaped at each other stupidly before they started to run as well.

They were heading for the wailing man, the one with the dead, milky eye.

Patrick didn’t know why he felt inclined to do what he did next. “No!” he shouted, and then took off, grabbing hold of Preston’s sleeve on the way by, tugging the old soldier along. Patrick ran as fast as his uneven legs could carry him, heading diagonally toward the kneeling man. Somehow he kept pace with the sprinting feral elf. He reached back and tugged Winterbone loose, his breath coming in short, painful rasps.