David Dalglish - Blood Of Gods

“Then the gods no longer walk the land,” she finished for him. For Rachida, the thought was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. Be careful what you pray for and all. “How do you think it happened, if it did?”

“Who knows?” Turock said with a shrug. He then pointed at his fellow spellcasters. “And I don’t rightly care. Just think on this, Rachida, my wonderful slice of the heavens. Let’s say the gods are gone. How many men and women do you know, in Neldar and beyond, who are practiced in the art of magic?”

She shrugged. “You, I suppose. And your students.”

“Exactly,” the man said with a wink as he proffered his pointed cap. “And some of the elves, of course. Which, if my grasp of numbers doesn’t fail me, will make me a very, very sought-after man.”

“I suppose it does.”

“You just remember to save some of that gold your men keep talking about for me. I think you owe me that much.”

Rachida frowned and walked away while Turock laughed, not liking that statement one bit.

An hour later, the cavalcade began the long march north. Rachida lingered behind, staring from a distance at the new hillock, the smoking divots in the earth, and the litany of corpses heaped on the ground. It was a quiet moment. She closed her eyes to pray for the souls of the dead, but suddenly realized that she didn’t know to whom to pray.

“Is the great Rachida Gemcroft feeling introspective?” she heard Quester ask.

Her eyes opened. The young sellsword was beside her, the blood in his forked beard now dried. It flaked off as he ran his hand through it. The handsome man smiled deviously at her.

“Should you not be watching over my charges?” she asked him.

“I handed the reins to Blackwolfe. The man’s eager. Has potential. Could make a good sellsword one day.”

“Perhaps.”

“Anyway, what happens with grimy Talon doesn’t truly concern me. What I would really like to know is where we go from here.” He laughed. “Do you wish to remain in Paradise and build a new life for yourself?”

She chuckled. “Fuck Paradise. I do not think I like it here.”

That elicited a laugh from Quester as well.

“As a matter of fact,” said Rachida, “I have a sudden, burning desire to march back to Neldar. Hopefully, I have someone there waiting for me, someone I haven’t seen in far too long.”

Moira’s image flashed in her mind, her icy blue eyes, her silver hair, her slender body. Rachida felt warmth spread through her.

Quester nodded. “So we find a way around the river and head east, then?”

“No. We ride back to Conch and sail back to the Isles of Gold.” She looked at her last remaining Twin, its cutting edge stained brown. “I miss my son, and I have a very special gift for my husband too.”

“That, and you still need to give us our gold.”

“Yes, that too.”

They laughed together and turned their horses about, heading toward the rear of the convoy as it plodded over the hills.

In the aftermath of the gods’ disappearance and the deaths of the twisted elves, the people stood in shocked silence. It seemed even the dying chose to still their tongues. Laurel felt a sort of deflating in the air, as if the souls of every living being who remained on what had once been a battlefield had been stripped of their wills. Soldiers of Karak and Ashhur, Sisters of the Cloth, Wardens from the west-all simply gawked at everything around them, confused as to what they should do next.

Laurel approached the battlefield from behind, walking slowly alongside the wreckage of what had been Karak’s most glorious creation. The Castle of the Lion’s three towers were a heap of rubble that filled up nearly the entire courtyard. The stables to the rear of the castle were buried under a mound of gray stone. The ground had fractured, and heavy stones had begun to slide down into the earth, collapsing into the dungeons and tunnels below the castle. The thirty-foot wall was in pieces as well; only three short sections remained standing.

As Laurel placed one foot in front of the other, she scanned the ruins. Shredded bits of tapestry, pinned below the chunks of stone, flapped in the breeze. There were iron cookware and brass candleholders strewn about, crushed and useless. In places, blood seeped from below the jagged boulders-all that remained of those who had hid within the castle during the battle. Laurel hoped Zebediah and Marius, the betraying members of the Council of Twelve, were among them.

Somehow, she had a feeling they hadn’t been.

King Eldrich walked to one side of her, Lyana Mori to the other. The king’s hands were shaking, his eyes bulging in disbelief as he took in the scene.

“I don’t believe it,” he said. “She did it. Celestia banished them.”

“Where did they go?” asked Lyana.

Laurel swallowed hard. “I don’t know, Lyana. I don’t know.”

Together, the three of them crossed through the area where once the portcullis had stood. There was a rotten stench in the air. The only sign that there had once been a wall and portcullis here was a single onyx lion, its rear half pulverized. Laurel shuddered and turned her head away from the thing. Lyana’s hand slipped into hers. King Eldrich cleared his throat.

“What do we do now?” he asked. His voice sounded far away.

“We keep going,” she told him.

Countless eyes turned to them as the trio walked onto the bloody cobbles outside the destroyed castle wall. A group of men decked in bloodied armor stepped aside, allowing them to pass. One among them Laurel recognized-Malcolm Gregorian, the scarred former Captain of the Palace Guard. Malcolm’s good eye shimmered with tears as he looked at Laurel, but there was no recognition in his gaze. The large man turned away, his massive sword strapped to his back and a pair of black blades dangling in his hands. He shook his head, looking just as lost as the men around him.

Laurel passed them by, allowing herself to patiently look upon the area where the battle had taken place. Corpses were everywhere-men, women, Wardens, and horses-grotesque reminders for those who’d survived the ordeal of what had just passed. She wondered if any of them were Pulo or Moira, or any of the other poor souls she had grown to love over the last year of her life. Whether they were or not, she knew that if they weren’t disposed of soon, this area would be nigh uninhabitable. Such a cold way to think, she thought. It was obvious no one shared her feelings. The people simply milled about, slowly breaking out of their stupors. The wounded were treated. Wardens, themselves appearing weary and mystified, knelt before those whose injuries were most dire, seemingly without care for which god had spawned them. Laurel looked on as a soft yellow glow rose up from one of their hands. The blood-drenched Warden stared at his fingers as if shocked that this should happen. Another Warden, a towering sort who walked with his head held high, leaned over his brethren and offered reassuring words. When he stood, the comforting Warden looked Laurel’s way and nodded. Laurel returned the gesture.

A great murmuring could soon be heard, a thousand whispered conversations happening at once. The survivors began gathering in small groups. It was difficult to tell who was who, what with all as drenched in blood as they were. Laurel wondered if the men out there knew one another, or if they were simply looking to the closest person to them for comfort. She shrugged and walked on.

Farther along the square, as the street leading to the South Road narrowed, Laurel found a small cluster of Sisters gathered before the front stoop of a coin lender’s store. Their wrappings red and heavy, they had their arms around one another as they sobbed. Laurel held out her hand, halting Eldrich’s and Lyana’s progress.