David Dalglish - Blood Of Gods

“Why are we stopping?” asked the king.

Laurel put a finger to her lips and watched.

The men who walked down the road paid the Sisters no mind, wandering mindlessly toward the main throughway in a steady stream. Some tugged injured horses behind them, the only things of true value left on the battlefield. Only one individual, a woman, seemed to notice the Sisters. The woman took a pin from her hair as she weaved between the ambling men, and out fell a nest of red-blond curls. Laurel had never seen hair that color in her life aside from the poor girl who had once hung from the castle wall. A woman from Paradise, she thought. The red-haired woman approached the Sisters and knelt in front of them, placing her hands on the backs of the two closest to her. The Sisters turned to her, and allowed the new woman to join in their embrace.

“What are we watching?” asked Lyana.

“Healing,” said Laurel.

The woman from Paradise leaned back from the embrace and faced one of the Sisters. Her head tilted to the side, and she smiled sadly. Reaching up her hands, the woman began undoing the wrappings around the Sister’s head, slowly revealing a shock of auburn waves, a pair of light green eyes, a thick nose, and full lips. The girl uncovered was young, thirteen at the most. The redhead leaned forward and rustled the girl’s hair before placing a gentle kiss on her forehead.

Behind the two, the rest of the Sisters began removing their wrappings as well.

“It’s symbolic,” she told King Eldrich.

“What is?”

“The removing of the bandages. They represent servitude. Once they come off, the allegiance to Karak ends. Look.”

She pointed toward the meandering crowd. Now that the Sisters had uncovered their faces, the men drifted toward them, offering embraces and sincere words, comforting them as they would any other.

“They’re allowed to care,” she said. “It doesn’t matter if they are from Veldaren, or Felwood, or Gronswik, or Omnmount, or even Paradise. It doesn’t matter which god created them. They are hurting, they have lived though a nightmare, and they require comfort. The gods be damned.”

Lyana gasped.

“I would watch your tongue, Laurel,” said the king.

“Why? We have no reason to any longer.”

“But we don’t know where the gods went. They might come back.”

To that, Laurel laughed. “You heard the goddess. They aren’t coming back.” She waved her arm out toward the departing masses. “And everyone knows it. We feel little because we turned our back on our god long ago. But these people? They fought for their deity, were willing to die for him. You can see the pain of loss in each of their eyes. They’re alone in a world where the gods once walked among them. As are we. Faith will be given new meaning now. So will what it means to be human.”

“Karak got his wish after all,” whispered Lyana.

Both Laurel and the king looked at her.

The girl continued, her tone childlike and timid. “Karak always said he wanted us to be free. That he wanted us to think for ourselves and make our own way.” She looked up at Laurel with pleading eyes. “Do you think he meant for this all along?”

Laurel’s heart broke for her. All she’s suffered in his name, and still she loves him.

“Who knows, Lyana?” she said. “Perhaps he did.”

It was the easiest lie in the world to tell.

King Eldrich squinted and stepped off the bloodstained slate walk. “And this peace. . do you think it will last?”

“No,” Laurel replied, sidling up beside the drawn-out man and slipping her arm into his. She didn’t fail to notice the way the king’s breathing hitched when she did so. “The shock will pass, and life will go on. We’re human. We err, we fight, we cheat, we steal, we kill. We’ll do just as we’ve always done, only now we do it rudderless.”

“And what of Paradise?” asked Eldrich. “Ashhur is gone as well, which leaves another rudderless nation in our midst, one that has been ravaged by war.”

“I think Paradise is the least of your worries, my Liege. There is too much to accomplish here.”

The king nodded solemnly and faced the departing mob. The weary soldiers greeted him with esteem as they walked by. “And what do I do?”

“You go among them. You talk to them. You inspire them. You’re the king of this land, no matter who it was that named you. And with no one to pull the strings, no one can rightly call you a puppet.”

“I don’t have the tools, Laurel. I don’t have an army. I don’t even have a castle .”

“You have something more than that. The people have known you as their king for nine years now. They recognize you as such. You must let those who would question your leadership see the real you. And as for a castle, you have the Tower Keep. It might not be as lavish as the Castle of the Lion, but perhaps that’s what you require. Someplace practical. Someplace easily defensible. Someplace as ugly as the sins of the human soul. This is now a new nation, with new rules and new laws, laws that you will help inscribe. You have everything you require to become not just a king, but a great king.”

“Not everything.”

“No?”

“No,” Eldrich said with a wink. “A great king needs a great queen, after all. I’ve heard all the Wardens’ stories say so.”

Lyana giggled and covered her mouth. As for Laurel, all she could do was shake her head and smile.

The cart was excruciatingly heavy. Then again, that was bound to be the case when the corpse of a twelve-foot-tall giant was sprawled atop it.

“Shouldn’t you have lost some weight by now, old friend?” asked Patrick, his eyes stinging from the sweat running down his bulging forehead. He peered behind him at the corpse of Bardiya Gorgoros. The giant’s skin had gone from brown to pale gray, and his gums and lips had receded, but other than that, the body was shockingly well preserved. His eyes were closed, his chin held back, as if in prayer. If anything, he appeared peaceful. Patrick turned back around, focusing instead on lugging the cart down the gentle decline. He felt tears begin to well up. “We hardly saw each other over the last twenty years, but I miss the big lug now more than ever.”

Big Flick, who hauled the cart’s other long handle, glanced over at him. The large young Turncloak sniffled and nodded, but said nothing.

It was early morning as the somber group of eight trudged their way from the cliff on which Bardiya had died to the rocky flatlands to the north. All were silent save the occasional sigh. Preston, Joffrey, Ryann, and the Kerrian Allay Loros walked in the lead with Warden Ahaesarus while Patrick and Big Flick hauled the cart behind them. To the rear was a second wagon, the leads of the lame horse that pulled it held by Little Flick. That second cart held a trio of corpses, those of Preston’s sons, Edward and Ragnar, and Tristan Valeson, along with their paltry supplies. They had come this way to honor the dead Turncloaks, as Preston wished to bury his sons as their tradition demanded, beneath the rocky soil they once called home. Retrieving Bardiya had been Patrick’s decision. The thought of allowing the man whom Ashhur had described as his most pure child to rot while animals pecked away at his corpse had made him feel ill.

Patrick grunted when his foot struck a protruding chunk of granite, sending pain flaring through his toes. He heard the horse snort behind him and cursed. He’d felt obligated to help haul the cart when they’d finally reached Bardiya’s body, a final show of respect to a man he’d once called friend, but it was frustrating that the cart needed human propulsion at all. After the attack on Veldaren, horses had become a rare and valuable commodity. That they had been given this lame mare, which had been wounded during the battle, was a wonder in itself.