David Dalglish - Blood Of Gods

The kneeling man’s head whirled around just as the feral elf drew close to him. The man fell back on his hands, groping on the ground beside him for something, but he wasn’t quick enough. A pair of black, glinting blades cut through the air.

Patrick dove forward and lunged with Winterbone. The feral elf’s swords crashed into his with a hollow clang . The elf’s strength was immense, but somehow, even though pain spiked into his back, Patrick’s powerful arms didn’t yield an inch. Their blades remained locked, just a whisper away from the kneeling man’s face.

The man’s good eye looked from Patrick to the elf and then back again. Patrick took a deep breath and brought his arms up with as much force as he could. The large elf was knocked backward, giving Jacob Eveningstar’s protector a chance to roll out of harm’s way. The other deformed elves closed in from behind, brandishing their own weapons and squealing like rabid animals. Patrick stepped back and hunkered down, preparing to be rammed, preparing to die.

Then the shouting began. Preston barked orders, inspiring those who’d been gawking to snap into action. A large crowd of humans collided with the feral elves, battering them with swords and axes, shoving them over the ruins of the castle wall. Patrick saw two of the odd wrapped women among the fray, their wrappings soaked with blood, slashing at the new enemy in their midst as if they could erase all the knowledge that their god was gone by simply destroying these primitive beasts. It was a vicious spectacle, and his watching of it almost ended him.

So focused was he on the brutality of his fellow humans that he almost didn’t see the large elf come at him from the side. At the last moment he bent backward, and two black swords sliced across the space he’d once occupied. The perverse elf roared at him and threw a fist, catching him full in the face. His nose snapped to the side, blood pouring from his nostrils. Patrick staggered, having to jab Winterbone against the cobbles to keep from falling.

The beastly thing was on him again a second later, hacking and slashing with wild abandon. It fought with no skill, only pure rage, beating Patrick back. Another three of its mates, apparently having escaped death at the hands of the riotous mob, joined the large elf’s side. All four of them bore down on Patrick. With his eyes watering from his broken nose and his limbs gone weary, it was all Patrick could do to hold Winterbone up. Blades scraped his armor and pierced his flesh.

One of the feral elves to his left then howled as the tip of a colossal sword exited his chest. The thing’s eyes bulged from his sockets and he looked down at the protruding blade as if in disbelief. In a single, brutal motion, the sword then flashed up, tearing the dark elf up through the bottom of his neck. The dead elf was knocked to the side. In its place stood the man who’d been kneeling, his horned helm back atop his head, his ample sword held firmly in both hands. The man’s good eye sparkled through his visor, and he nodded curtly before hurtling himself toward two of the elves, his sword strikes measured and deadly.

The larger of the feral elves, the one in the black armor, remained fixated on Patrick. Sparks were flying in all directions as his two swords met Winterbone again and again. The elf was much larger than him, and despite his feat of strength earlier, he knew he couldn’t keep up this fight for long. The elf finally threw him off balance, thrusting with one sword, a move that Patrick lifted Winterbone to counter. The other sword then slipped beneath his raised hands. The blade clanged off the bottom of Patrick’s breastplate and plunged easily into his belly. Patrick lurched forward as pain overwhelmed him. The feral elf slammed his forehead into Patrick’s. His head snapped back and he collapsed. The blade slid out of him as he fell. Patrick felt blood gush from the wound, drenching his crotch and thighs.

The feral thing hovered over him, cackling in an odd, callous way. The sun glimmered over his black scale armor as he held both swords out to his sides, the blades dripping with Patrick’s blood. The elf’s muscles tensed as he prepared to strike. Patrick showed the beast his neck, hoping it would be quick. The twisted elf then paused for some reason, his head tilting to the side. It didn’t stop tilting until the head came loose from the neck and tumbled over his shoulder. The body fell, collapsing next to Patrick on the gore-stained cobbles with a sickening splat . The elf’s swords clattered away.

Patrick looked up at the gigantic image of a god looming above him, a halo of light shimmering around its body. The figure then leaned on a sword and crouched down beside Patrick, his silky golden hair just as soaked with blood as everything else in this godsforsaken place. Patrick looked into those intense blue eyes and laughed, causing a coughing fit to overtake him. That was no god.

“Ahaesarus,” he said between painful chuckles. “You made it.”

“Barely,” the Master Warden said.

“Couldn’t you see he was going to kill me? I would think you’d have at least given me that before you cut off his head.”

Ahaesarus patted him on the shoulder. “Sorry. Today was not your day to die, Patrick. After what just happened, you are needed.”

“Too bad I’m gutted.”

The Warden laid down his sword and rubbed his hands together. “Let us see what we can do about that.”

Another form then appeared above him, blocking the sun. Patrick raised his eyes and saw the man with one eye. His sword was sheathed, the horned helm wedged beneath his arm. The man gazed down at him, his lips pursed.

“You saved my life,” he said coldly. “For that I am thankful.”

Patrick went to reply, only the man turned away before he could say anything. He picked up the twisted elf’s two black swords and headed toward a small gathering of soldiers without another word.

“Charming fellow,” Patrick said.

“He is one of Karak’s most faithful,” said Ahaesarus, watching the man as he and his mates wandered away. “It drips off him.”

“Good for him,” Patrick said. His vision began to get blurry. “But say, Ahaesarus, did you come to save me or let me slowly die?”

The Master Warden chuckled and placed his hands on Patrick’s midsection. “To tell you the truth, I am not certain this will work,” he said, his eyes peering at the spot where the gods had warred.

“Well try, anyway, or let me go.”

Ahaesarus nodded and began to whisper words of prayer. His hands glowed with holy light. Patrick felt the warmth and comfort of Ashhur’s healing magics course through him and leaned his head back on the soaked cobbles. He began to grow tired, but before he closed his eyes, he looked one last time at the place where Ashhur and Karak had fought, where the blood of gods had been spilled before a bolt of lightning swallowed them both, along with Jacob Eveningstar, the child of two gods.

“Ashhur, where did you go?” he asked aloud before he lost consciousness.

Rachida’s surviving band of sellswords tried to scale the stumpy new hillock as the winged horses approached, but the steep incline and their armor made them clumsy. Her men slid down the rocks or tumbled head over heels. Rachida herself attempted no such foolish measure. She had just seen a demon turn into a precipitous pile of rocks, elves stare up at the sky as if listening to some unheard diatribe and then half of them fall screaming to the ground, and now winged horses flew over the horizon. No, she was going to stay ready for whatever came next.

“Quester!” she shouted over the din of flapping wings and shrieking elves. “Pox Jon, Turock-get the men moving! Forget the winged horses. We have our own.”